Project MINA Gen version
by Kei
Summary: An experiment releases a great evil onboard Seaview.
1. 1

VOYAGE TO THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA  
  
"Project M.I.N.A."  
(gen version/au)  
  
by  
Kei  
  
  
"I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God, in Him will I trust... surely He shall deliver thee from the pestilence. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night...nor the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor the destruction that wasteth at noonday..."  
Psalms 91: 2-6, the King James Bible   
  
  
  
Prologue  
  
  
  
  
The gun was heavy in his trembling hands; the bitter cold of its metal body reaching through the tattered thin woven fabric of the beige-colored utility gloves that he wore as a feeble gesture of defiance against the rapidly dropping temperature all around him. Yet, despite the bitter cold ache in his stiffening fingers, he held onto the semi-automatic's sleek handle as if the gun was a life preserver and he, a drowning man. The stark walls echoed with his weary, beleaguered sigh. God... There was little he could do but wait. Wait as he had been ordered. Just sit here and wonder if hypothermia would claim his life before they did. He was no longer certain which fate seemed worse. Perhaps he would soon see.  
  
A vague yet insistent pounding against the locked metal door that held this private frozen prison/sanctuary inviolate woke him from his grim daydreams of personal doomsday. He gasped aloud, releasing jets of semi-frozen condensation from his nostrils as he recognized the rhythm of the code that he and his one remaining comrade had hastily devised between themselves. It wasn't them. It wasn't. Just then, the P.A. hissed. "Pst... Mathieu!.. Will you open up the goddamned door!"  
  
"Adam..." he whispered in a ragged voice as he punched the seven-digit entry code into the automated lock. Hours seemed to pass even though it was merely a matter of seconds before the massive metal barrier groaned aloud as if it was in great pain as it inched open ever so slowly, sending a shower of frost to the tiled floor of sickly green and grey. "Hurry! It won't take them long to notice the noise!"  
  
"Christ Almighty, Mathieu! You don't think I already know that!"  
  
Corpsman Mathieu Thibideau slammed his palm down upon the emergency closure button as soon as Captain Adam Hudson had squeezed his lean frame through the small opening they had created. Only a few inches -barely enough- but they dared not widen the entrance any further. The massive metal door had been slow to open and would be just as slow to close. And time was precious. Little escaped their notice and they would soon be coming. The door sealed the entrance with a low booming thud and another shower of frost.  
  
In a gesture born of military-indoctrinated habit, Adam Hudson brushed the fine dust of frost from his damaged, once-fine and proud naval uniform, noting with almost comic exasperation that he had torn another gaping hole in one of the sleeves. He had never been a robust man, always dwelling on that narrow border between lean and skinny. Now...he could be taken for nothing else but gaunt, and though he had yet to reach his fortieth birthday only a year from now, he now appeared closer to an unhealthy fifty or more.  
  
Corpsman Thibideau shuddered, hoping that his commanding officer had not noticed his unconscious reaction. His captain had the Sickness. As a medical man and an unwilling witness to the illness' subtler symptoms, he knew that plague for what it was...and for what it was slowly, but inexorably doing to this man who was to him as an elder brother...as it had to the others...as it had yet to do to him. How he wished he didn't. Ignorance would have been bliss right now. Perhaps Adam Hudson had read the poorly disguised expression of horror on the young corpsman's face for he sighed heavily and said: "We don't have much time...at least...I don't."  
  
"Skipper -Adam- there's still a chance that help will come in time to-"  
  
"Save it!" Hudson snapped sharply and then grimaced as a jagged knife of pain twisted deep within his stomach. Thibideau reached out to try to help, to at least offer what small comfort that he could, but was brushed, almost thrown aside, by a wave of the captain's hand. "Get away!" For a moment, there was something else beneath the pain; the ghost of something bestial that seemed to be struggling to the surface of the man's being as hard as he was struggling to keep it imprisoned. But...almost as soon as it had come, the moment passed and was gone, and with it, the faint shadow of hidden horror. The captain took a deep, cleansing breath and stood up straight...himself again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I'm sorry. " The young corpsman nodded grimly -he understood. Explanations and apologies were unnecessary. Hudson shuddered visibly.  
  
"The ship has been taken care of...Jean-Marc and I have seen to that," he said softly, shaking his head with awful remorse. His ship; his first full command... "The explosives will take care of the base." Captain Hudson took in his antiseptic surroundings with a small, tired smile. "This room was constructed to store the most volatile materials -it's blast-proof...the explosives won't touch it. You should be safe here."  
  
"How can you remain so damned calm!" Thibideau demanded, forgetting all military protocol, the rage and fear he had been suppressing these last few nightmarish days, bursting to the surface. "It's not right and it's not fair!"  
  
Captain Hudson cocked his left eyebrow in the familiar gesture of wry amusement which his corpsman knew so very well. "Since when has life been 'fair', Mathieu? Fairness went the way of the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. You are the only one of us who possesses this peculiar immunity to this thing...and if it should come to that, you may be the key to a cure. You've got to stay alive!" He glanced at the watch that all but swung around his wrist. "I'm going to make another attempt at getting to the communications' center and release the warning beacon. Wish me luck."  
  
"Bon chance, mon ami..." Corpsman Thibideau's words of luck rang hollow in the sterile, icy gloom as he released the lock on the automated door and watched his captain -his friend- disappear for what he believed was the last time. Even as he said "good luck", he knew in his heart that he was really saying "good bye".  
  
  
1  
  
  
The first cognizant thought that Harriman Nelson had as he opened his eyes was the vague impression of a memory...an ephemeral thing...the grim memory of the nightmare from which he had just awoken. It had been one of those confused nocturnal flights of fancy; images folding, one into another; neither here nor there...except for one. Even as wakefulness exorcised most of the few remaining details of the dream, he found that he remembered one image quite clearly still -that of a form, a thing in the nebulous darkness that had eyes like angry red coals and the canines of a beast, ripping and tearing... Nelson shuddered and uttered a low self-conscious laugh. Just another nightmare...just the foolish random imagery born of sleep's madness...and Cookie's most recent effort at preparing his famous "Chili Caliente" which still sat heavily in his stomach. Nightmares. In truth, he sometimes found it more than a little surprising that he didn't suffer them more often.  
  
It was a well known secret. Admiral Nelson allowed himself a small tired smile as he swung his legs from his bunk to the polished deck of his private cabin. He walked over to medicine cabinet and shook from a small plastic bottle, two flat white tablets into a glass of water -the tablets began to fizz and dissolve almost immediately. Yes, this ship -this submarine- was easily the most widely known secret of which he was aware. The S.S.R.N. Seaview was his brainchild and he, her principal designer. She was a behemoth among giant super nuclear-powered submarines; a vessel of such power and advanced design that she could not openly -officially that is- be recognized as a regular naval vessel, and only those aboard her and those of the highest security ranking knew for certain that she was anything more than a technological flight of fancy...more than just another submarine. She was as much a research vessel as a warship; a spacecraft under the sea, and a ship and a crew that was sent into situations to which no other could go either in times of war or peace...as they had many times. Too many times. The stuff of nightmares...  
  
Nelson put the glass to his lips and drained it of the effervescing drink and frowned at the bitter aftertaste.  
  
"The stuff of nightmares..." he muttered under his breath, musing over past adventures. But not this one. Admiral Nelson cast a side-long glance at the dog-eared paper-bound book he had placed on the nightstand beside his bunk just before insomnia had finally given ground and sleep had claimed him for the night; right beside the neatly folded spectacles that he occasionally wore lately when his eyes grew tired -the glasses he had yet to admit to anyone but the ship's doctor that he wore at all.  
  
It was one of those old, old novellas (a reprint actually) that had become popular with the present fancy for pre-21st century literature; something he had picked up at a five-and-dime second-hand shop while on a recent shore leave and had promised to lend to the ship's captain. It was a sometimes pretentious little tale of horror; of darkness and dwellers of shadow that had fangs and would attack to drink one's... Harriman Nelson uttered another muted self-conscious laugh. Utter foolishness. A man of his age should have known better than to dwell on such things.  
  
The Admiral glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand and stifled a yawn as he ran his fingers through his rumpled wavy hair which had somehow steadfastly remained fiery red despite the onset of middle-age and the curious nature of the assignments to which he and his crew were often sent, and sighed aloud.  
  
Time to get back to duty.  
  
  
  
  
"Morning, Skipper!"  
  
Captain Lee Crane glanced up from his usual morning cup of coffee (black, no sugar, no cream) and offered a half-hearted "good morning" in response to his executive officer's bright and cheery greeting. There was a slightly sheepish expression on the naval commander's handsome young face as he furtively stuffed a hastily folded handkerchief into the left breastpocket of his uniform shirt and went back to studying the still-steaming dark liquid in his mug. If Lee Crane's executive officer, Chip Morton, had noticed the self-conscious gesture on his captain's part, he made no mention of it as he returned from the mess counter, where the cook was now wearing a curiously knowing smirk, with a glass of tomato juice in one hand and an oversized carrot-raisin muffin in the other.  
  
Morton sat down at the Captain's table and studied the sour, thick red liquid in his glass and then the healthfood cupcake, sighing with profound disgust. "Doc's prescription," the grim-faced executive officer muttered in response to his captain's questioning glance. "The man has a major mean streak in him if he actually expects me to increase my fibre-intake by eating this crud."  
  
A fleeting grin passed over Crane's thin lips, animating his grim countenance, and then was gone. "Could be worse," he murmured, his New England accent all the thicker because of lingering tiredness, and stared into the distance at nothing in particular. He winced as he sipped his coffee and set the cup down.  
  
"Oh?" Morton asked with a slight lift of his left eyebrow, suspecting that there was more to come. "How?"  
  
The grin returned to Lee Crane's lips, a trifle sourly this time and not nearly as sincere. "You could have put up with the week I just did."  
  
Commander Morton had been disinterestedly picking at the paper cup in which his muffin sat, peeling the paper away from the slightly sticky cake, but at his captain's cryptic utterance, pushed aside the object of his dissatisfaction and leaned forward almost conspiratorially. He glanced back sharply at Cookie who, feigning innocence or ignorance or both, immediately busied himself with restocking the galley stores locker. Morton returned his attention to Crane. "Your shore leave, you mean? Weren't you supposed to be spending your liberty with...what was her name...Laura?"  
  
"Lorna," Crane countered with a slight grimace and pushed aside his coffee which had begun to cool. He had never liked lukewarm coffee.  
  
"So..?"  
  
"It didn't happen."  
  
"Ahh..."  
  
There was a sharp flicker of annoyance in Lee Crane's eben eyes at Chip Morton's too-knowing response. They were good friends -the best and for the longest time- but sometimes...just sometimes, Morton's tendency to be blunt hit the wrong nerve. No matter. He let it pass. "Not like that," Crane muttered with a scowl of disgust. "I went to visit my mother first... She had me up on the roof patching God-knows-how-many leaks during what had to be the heaviest and longest rainstorm I've experienced recently." He coughed. "I ended up spending the rest of the week in bed with the flu. If I ever so much as see another bowl of chicken soup..."  
  
Morton winced slightly. "And Laura-"  
  
"Lorna."  
  
"-wouldn't wait."  
  
"Not that I expected that she would," Crane replied honestly with a dismissive shrug and a small sniffle. He leaned forward and rested his aching head on his folded arms. "Damn...they can cure cancer, but they can't cure most strains of influenza. With the number of Aspirins that I've swallowed lately, I should rattle when I walk."  
  
Morton shook his head sympathetically and nudged his glass of tomato juice toward his captain. "Here. You need this more than I do." He caught Crane's sharp glance of annoyance and prudently hastened to add: "For the vitamin C."  
  
"Oh."  
  
For a long moment, nothing was said; the only things to be heard were the ever-present, soft droning hum of Seaview's massive reactor-driven engines, and the sound of breathing. Morton silently studied Crane as the man regarded the thick red fluid in his glass as suspiciously as if he thought that the sanguine liquid might be blood. Eventually, Crane drew a heavy breath and sipped it gingerly, cringing both at the taste and the fact that his throat had begun to hurt. Finally, Morton steeled himself and summoned his voice. "Lee..." Lee Crane looked up, waiting.  
  
Morton's brow creased with a frown of concern...of worry. In the years that he and Lee Crane had known each other -mostly as shipmates thrust together after the brutal murder of Seaview's first captain, John Phillips, and then as friends- he had come to realize that the man before him had no patience for his own weaknesses while he had plenty of it for others, and had a tendency to minimize the situation when he found himself ill. If Crane could admit that he was a little sick, then the chances were good that he was very sick. "Listen...Lee...this is me talking as a friend -if the Admiral finds out that you're going on duty in your condition, he will have a conniption! He'll haul you down to Sick Bay so fast that-"  
  
Lee Crane looked up sharply, eyes narrow and dark with annoyance. "He isn't going to find out," he said quietly.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
For a moment or two, Crane seemed to drift among his own thoughts and spoke as if to himself. "The line between being treated like a son and being treated like a child is often dangerously thin..." The fog fled from Crane's eyes and the hard glint that came with authority returned to them as he sat up fully. "Chip... I have...what amounts to a small cold. If it was anything else, I'd confine myself to Sick Bay on my own authority. So -if a certain Executive Officer were to bother the Admiral over something so damned trivial, that same Executive Officer would find himself as the first XO on extended galley duty. Is that quite clear?"  
  
Chip Morton raised his thin eyebrows and picked at his breakfast. "Quite clear."   
  
Sometimes, it was impossible to tell whether or not Lee Crane was joking.  
  
  
  
  
"Shit!"  
  
The wrench fell from seaman Kowalski's hand and landed on the dull steel deck of the Missile Room with a loud, harsh clatter. Choice obscenities, each stronger and juicier than the one preceding it, fluttered before his mind's eye as he glared at the recalcitrant bolt that held the grate covering the airduct firmly fixed to the bulkhead...and then sighed, shoulders slumping slightly, knowing that a verbal tirade wouldn't make this almost painfully boring maintenance duty complete itself any faster.  
  
Kowalski brushed aside a thick dark lock of hair that had drifted over his eyes and seemed, with almost human obstinance, intent on staying there as it immediately drifted back. "Ripe rotten shit," he growled under his breath, deciding that the first declaration wasn't strong enough after all. Maintenance duty -easily the least enviable and yet, one of the most important assignments on Seaview. Without the regular checking of every nook and cranny, without these jobs which left one sweaty, smeared with grime and the fingernails caked with unnamable crud, Seaview -despite her much vaunted power- would grind to an ungainly stop. Besides which...since his team's less than phenomenal performance rating, during one of the Captain's unannounced inspections a couple of weeks ago, the list of duties had grown longer and more detailed.  
  
Kowalski glared at the obstinate bolt and reached for the wrench. Last duty on this roster and he was not going to have his whole day held up by a mindless lump of metal. At the edge of the seaman's hearing, he heard the gradually approaching sound of discordant music thumping from some unknown source and glanced over his shoulder, wincing both at the cacophony and at how it made his head hurt worse than it had been on and off all week long. Damned migraines. Seaman Stu Riley, a fresh-faced kid barely out of his teens -a strawberry-blonde who looked as if he was born to live out his life on a California beach, not serve on a submarine- skated into the Missile Room (nobody knew how) on the rubber soles of his uniform sneakers, a tool kit in one hand and a portable CD double tape-deck stereo in the other -the latter being the source of the steady diet of grunge rock or whatever it was called these days.  
  
A sigh escaped Kowalski's lips. The sooner he got this little job done, the sooner he didn't have to listen to- "Son of a bitch!" The stubborn bolt had shown every sign of moving -a little, just a little- when the wrench had snapped from with such a sudden force that all Kowalski knew was that the bolt was still in place, the wrench had clattered to the deck, his left thumb was throbbing, and blood was slowly oozing from an ugly and deep gash there.  
  
"Hey, Kowalski, what's your sitch? You got a prob?"  
  
"No! No damned problem at all!" Kowalski growled, his ugly mood growing uglier. He pulled his bruised, bloodied thumb out of his mouth, grimacing at the metallic taste of his own blood. "I almost cut off my own thumb, that's all!"  
  
"Bogus..." Riley whistled sympathetically, a cloud of concern passing over his usually beaming face -but only for a moment. "But Doc can deal with that problem like fast!"  
  
"Maybe..." Kowalski murmured, unwilling to be pulled out of his deep-blue funk by Stu Riley's almost ever-present cheerfulness just yet. "Will you turn that down!"  
  
"Chill, dude -no problem!" The portable electronic music box went dead and silent with a quick stab of Riley's thumb on one of its numerous buttons. He frowned again. "Something eating you, 'Ski?"  
  
"Hmph...besides my thumb, you mean? Just this migraine that's been dogging me all week," Kowalski groaned with a begrudging and almost apologetic smile. "I've been to Doc about it, but the stuff he gave me last time...man, the side-effects ain't worth it."  
  
"Bogus, dude. I guess I know what you mean about not wanting to go to the Doc...the stuff you gotta take... I had to make for the Sick Bay right after shore leave last. Antibiotics for me!"  
  
"Yeah?" Kowalski grumbled, intrigued despite himself as he glowered at his wounded thumb and then back at the nearly cherubic face of Riley. "What for?"  
  
A reddening shadow reached from Stu Riley's ears to his cheeks as he glanced around himself at the other crewmen working at the other end of the Missile Room. "Shore leave."  
  
"'Shore leave'?" Kowalski questioned suspiciously.  
  
"You know," Riley insisted. "Shore leave!" he repeated, gesturing meaningfully with his eyes.  
  
Blank incomprehension and then aghast disbelief crossed the elder crewman's face. "Jesus, Stu! Where was your head! In this day and age -didn't you use anything!"  
  
Stu Riley shrugged sheepishly. "Well, like, she was the most bodacious I had ever seen and I sort...forgot. Besides, Doc took care of it -what's the prob?"  
  
"Just the likelihood that everytime we find a cure for whatever ails us, Nature has the sick sense of humor to cook up something way worse." Both conversationalists started at the voice of the unannounced audience to their tête à tête. Seaman Patterson, a tall lanky former Kansas farmboy, stood with a half amused/half disapproving smirk on his face. "It happens every time we think we've got things licked."  
  
"How long have you been there, Pat!" Kowalski demanded , glancing uneasily from side to side.  
  
"A minute -two maybe- it doesn't really matter. I was working in the aft ductwork -I could hear you clear across the room," Patterson said with a hunching of his shoulders and a sweeping gesture of his hands.  
  
Stu Riley blanched nearly sheet-white. "Why didn't you say anything before now!"  
  
"Well..." Patterson admitted with a sheepish grin. "It was better than any scuttlebutt going around these days and besides...what sailor hasn't heard of 'shore leave'?"  
  
His initial indignation forgotten, Riley's youthful face and expression brightened visibly. This wasn't confession or embarrassment -this was bragging rights. "I mean, you just had to see her. She was tiny -tiny all over except she's got these like, really big bodacious cones-" He indicated with his cupped hands. "Like, you know?"  
  
"We get you," Kowalski and Patterson chimed in unison.  
  
"And she's, I think, Hawaiian or something, but she's got these green eyes-"  
  
"Uh, Stu..." Kowalski interrupted uneasily and suddenly.  
  
"And I was a real hunk even if I do say so myself -"  
  
"Stu..!" Patterson hissed urgently with a cough.  
  
"What!" Riley snapped indignantly at last. His audience had suddenly gone silent -Patterson looked like he wanted to fall through a hole in the deck. "I mean, it's not like the Chief is here to-" Riley stopped, his voice fading out as he swallowed with sudden dread. "He's right behind me, isn't he?" Kowalski and Patterson nodded in unison. Riley winced, glanced to his side and whispered: "I thought so." Steeling himself , he put on his most innocent and ingratiating smile and turned to come face to face with the stocky, imposing figure of the chief of the boat -Chief Petty Officer Francis Sharkey. "Chief! How's it going? I was just on my way to-"  
  
"Stow it, sailor!" Sharkey barked, his expression as dark as an approaching storm. The three seamen stood at ramrod straight attention, waiting for the proverbial leaden hammer to fall as the glowering chief petty officer paced a wide circle around them before stopping in front of them, his thick eyebrows knitting together as he fixed them with his blazing glare. "I...cannot believe you three jokers," he snapped in a Brooklynite accent so thick that it could be cut with a knife. "Last performance rating -60%. Sixty percent ! I tell the Skipper, 'Don't you worry about it, sir. I can whip these swabjockies back into shape in no time flat -no problem!' And what do I find? You three giggling girls flapping your lips about your love lives like a bunch of old ladies over Bridge! What in the blazes am I supposed to do with youse, hah? Babysit you 'till you get out of the ParaNavy or something? The only thing I want to hear an' see right now is all of youse getting back to your duties!"  
  
"Yes, Chief. I know, Chief," Riley flustered while Kowalski and Patterson looked on, fighting the urge to grin despite their unenviable predicament. "It's just that she wasn't just any babe!"  
  
"Oh really ?" Sharkey muttered sarcastically. "And just what makes this fling any different from the hundred or so that I've heard you talk about in the time you've been on Seaview, huh?"  
  
"See, Chief," Riley explained eagerly, "she did this most radical thing with a rope, a trampoline, and a quart of cold cream to-"  
  
"That's enough, Riley!" Chief Sharkey snapped, blanching an odd, nearly yellow hue. He shook his head weakly. "You three just get back to work and make sure you have a 90% performance rating -at least! I don't want to hear anymore!" With that, the Chief turned on his heel and stalked out of the Missile Room, saying after him: "I don't want to hear another word!"  
  
Riley, Patterson, and Kowalski regarded each other and shrugged as they returned, chastened for the moment, to their duties. Patterson glanced the way the Chief had left and murmured to himself: "I wanted to hear the rest of it."  
  
  
  
  
"Jesus..." Ropes, trampolines, and cold cream -the words bounced around in Francis Sharkey's head as he stomped down the corridor leading to the Control Room. Ropes, trampolines, and cold cream -what in the seven seas, he wondered, could a man and woman do with them while... He frowned as his active imagination provided a tentative answer and cringed as he decided that he really didn't want to know. It wasn't that he wasn't experienced in the ways of the world or that he hadn't been around once or twice, but this... The Chief shook his head in profound bewilderment and wondered if he was just more than a little behind the times. A little old-fashioned maybe.  
  
Except for the Admiral, himself, the Doc, and maybe a number of crewmen he could count on one hand, Seaview's crew was young, exceptionally young; their ages landing somewhere between twenty and twenty-eight or less. An old memory fluttered before the Chief's mind's eye; that of his first meeting with the youthful skipper he had on first sight taken for a crewman -Captain Crane. Awkward situation best forgotten.  
  
A boatload of children that had to be kept in line with an occasional swift kick in the butt or just as often, had to have their noses wiped...the best crew at sea. Which -Chief of the Boat Francis Sharkey decided- was why he had to lay it on a little thick when it came to discipline...like in the Missile Room just now. The best didn't stay the best if they were allowed to get slack -Sharkey's law.  
  
"Hey! Watch it!" Sharkey barked, his fleeting reverie sundered as the tall form of the submarine's communications' officer, Sparks, all but barreled into him. The sealed communiqué that he had been carrying flew out of his hands and spun down to the deck. "Jesus, Sparks, what's with you!"  
  
Sparks' fair features deepened to a flustered crimson as he snatched up the coded transmission. "Sorry, Chief...coded transmission for the Admiral -eyes only and right away!" With that, the radioman took to his feet and disappeared around a bend in the corridor, leaving a bemused chief petty officer staring after him, muttering to himself as he continued his own trek.  
  
"Kids."  
  
  
  
  
"Thank you, Sparks."  
  
Admiral Nelson shut the door to his quarters and frowned as he studied the sliver-thin envelope; frowning because InterAllied Command had bypassed the ship's captain and had had this communiqué sent to him directly. Hardly proper naval protocol to- The mirror-like sheen of the palm-sized silver disk reflected the light from the envelope; an encoded laser micro-disk, requiring his personal code to decipher the message. Eyes only indeed. From clamshell terminal to clamshell terminal -the need for privacy must have been greater than normal... Nelson felt his frown deepen.  
  
Almost as soon as the laser disk was placed in the computer's disk drive, there was a distinct electronic hum and the terminal's screen flared to life. In all, it took approximately twenty minutes for the entirety of the message to be relayed, but it took easily thirty or more before the Admiral of the Seaview could truly absorb and accept the information it contained and by the time he had, Nelson's countenance had become ashen. My God, he wondered in horror, if the situation was even half as bad as InterAllied feared...  
  
Admiral Nelson stabbed a button on his desk communicator. "This is Nelson. Will Captain Crane and Commander Morton report to my cabin..." He paused as the potential ramifications of the message washed over his mind again and then added: "At once."  
  
Less than five minutes passed before the Admiral heard a knock at the door of his cabin. "Come." The door swung open, admitting first Captain Crane and then, Commander Morton.  
  
"You wanted to see us, sir?" Crane asked.  
  
"I do. Shut the door...and you might as well sit down... This could be a long one." Morton and Crane shared a puzzled glance, saying nothing, but communicating much, both silently pondering the possible reasons for their abrupt summons. Morton shut the door with a soft click and took his seat beside his captain.  
  
A long, long moment passed as Nelson tried to find the words, the right words, to express what had to be said. Lee Crane and Chip Morton, the finest officers aboard Seaview, were as different as night and day. Chip Morton, Germanic blonde, blue-eyed and very fair complected, was stoically intellectual and reserved, a by-the-book Navy man. Lee Crane, olive-skinned, eben hair and eyes, was an exceptionally young and intelligent captain about the same age as most of his young crew, one whose training allowed him to accept the usual and the unusual with the same gravity if the need proved itself and whose military bearing sometimes only poorly concealed a smoldering temper...different as night and day...and yet, they both had one major thing in common. Despite their individual skills and training, they were both still amazingly naïve concerning the seamier subtleties of the military politics that he knew so well...like the ones that would govern this mission. "We apparently have...a situation."  
  
Crane's brow furrowed. "Sir?"  
  
Nelson sighed with a definite weariness despite the fact that the day was still quite young. "Approximately an hour ago, a message was sent to me through InterAllied Command concerning a top secret research installation in the Antarctic by the name of 'Station Delta'. Have either of you heard of it?"  
  
Again, the two officers shared that glance that said so much. They knew that except for some nebulous facility, the Antarctic was deserted these days, but... "No, sir," Morton said finally.  
  
"I wouldn't really have expected you to," Nelson said with a wry grin, "but it's the most advanced international research facility dedicated to the study and cure of diseases -contagious and otherwise -all the way up to Biohazard Level 8! Though never publicly revealed, both the cure for AIDS and the genetic key that led to the cure for diabetes were discovered there." Crane and Morton both appeared duly impressed. "We have also...lost contact with it."  
  
Crane shrugged, not particularly concerned. "Magnetic fluxes around the poles are very erratic this time of year -temporary communications' breakdowns are commonplace."  
  
"Perhaps..." Nelson admitted, finding it pleasant to entertain the idea and then accepting that he didn't really believe it, pleasant though it was. He knew too much to think positively at the moment. "But...we've also lost contact with a sub registered to the Federation of Canada -one of the giant nuclear submarines- the S.S.N. Voyageur out of the state of New Brunswick...from its Acadian port."  
  
Both Crane and Morton reacted at the mention of the name of the submarine that was often referred to as Seaview's cousin ship. While Voyageur could not equal experimental Seaview's advanced design and power, of all the submarines in service, she was the only nuclear vessel that came close. "But Voyageur's communications' systems were designed especially to overcome polar magnetic flux," Morton said in mild protest.  
  
"I know -they're on par with those on Seaview." Nelson automatically reached for the cigarette pack in his front pocket and hesitated as he caught sight of the tiny, almost undetectable frown that creased his young captain's brow. Crane had never approved of smoking, didn't smoke himself, and though he had never and likely would never comment on his admiral's little vice, Nelson found himself suddenly and distinctly uncomfortable -how long had it been since he had boasted that he was going to quit smoking for once and for all? Five days? God -was that all? Nelson stuffed the pack back into his breast pocket. "And if something is wrong, it's difficult to tell when it actually occurred; the station only made reports bi-weekly and while on assignment to Delta, Voyageur was on radio-silence."  
  
"Then how can we be certain that there's anything wrong at all?" Crane questioned, leaning forward. "You just said yourself that communications are restricted under the best of conditions."  
  
Nelson slid the shimmering disk back into the disk drive and pressed the appropriate button, scanning. "A ham radio operator, using an admittedly restricted series of frequencies, happened upon a partial transmission from what is apparently the station's warning beacon. What he heard -and taped- frightened him enough to turn what he had recorded over to the proper authorities. InterAllied sent us an exerpt of what they were able to clean up -though the quality is still quite poor." Nelson released the scanning button and sat back uneasily. "The transmission was garbled due to distance, the magnetic fields, and what appears to have been a dying battery, but...perhaps you gentlemen had better hear this for yourselves."  
  
At first, there was very little to hear; merely the telltale rushing and hissing of electronic static and feedback, but then, very gradually above the electronic din, came a voice -vaguely human and very distant, and with startling abruptness, sharp and clear. "...is Captain Hudson...Submarine Voyageur out of..." The voice was lost for several seconds, enveloped by a piercing whine, before it snapped back, fading in and out of a blizzard of noise. "Emergency situation...-arctic Station Delt...lab accident has caused...release of...created during Project M.I.N.A....Had no idea...Did not know...contamination...so great...did not...realize what they...found...Deliberate or...monstrous mistake ...Contaminant...aboard ship...now...Station..." The voice suddenly became so clear that it was as if the speaker was in the very room. "We had no idea how far Dr. Ionescu's team had gone or when the Phoenix Project became Project M.I.N.A....if there ever was a Phoenix Project at all. There may not have been -I don't doubt that now."  
  
A look of thinly disguised horror paled the faces of Crane and Morton. Nelson felt a familiar chill travel down his spine as the message was replayed and began to break up again. "...repeat warning...condition red...Project M.I.N.A. has released...must not..." The voice was finally, completely swallowed by crackling noise. The silence in Nelson's office was deafening.  
  
"A massive biological catastrophe..." the Captain said in a low, disbelieving voice. "That is what we're talking about here, isn't it?"  
  
"It may very well be," Nelson replied honestly, "and of what, we don't really know. According to the governments involved, there was no noting of a 'Project M.I.N.A.' in the station's prior transmissions -nor had they been given any authorization for any private projects and Delta was well equipped to handle any form of accidental contamination. Their most recent authorized assignment was the Phoenix Project."  
  
"If I may, what was the Phoenix Project?" Crane asked pensively.  
  
"Simply the most ambitious medical project known," Nelson said grimly. "They were working on a preventative vaccine for cancer...any cancer -whether purpose changed with time, we don't know."  
  
"And we're supposed to go in there, aren't we?.." Morton said in disbelieving sort of wonder. "...to maybe deal with something we know nothing about."  
  
"Seaview's mission is to determine whatever the cause of the cessation of the transmissions...officially. Unofficially, and under Presidential orders of top secrecy, we are to determine the reason for this emergency transmission, and to also learn the nature of this 'Project M.I.N.A.' if it actually exists."  
  
"And if it does?" Crane asked quietly. "Whatever it is?"  
  
Admiral Nelson grimaced inwardly. He didn't like this -he really didn't. "Seaview's decontamination/anticontamination capabilities are without par -they are more than sufficient. However, we must prepare for the chance that our mission might not be one of rescue or discovery...but of 'containment' in whatever form that might take -is that understood? Very well then, gentlemen, I expect you to make preparations and set course for the Antarctic at best possible speed... Dismissed."  
  
Nelson sank back in his swivel chair and rested his head against his hands, his fingers massaging the gnawing ache that was growing and spreading from temple to temple. He heard the door to his cabin open, steps into the corridor fading with distance, then another set of steps and a pause. Nelson looked up, not particularly surprised to see that Captain Crane had stopped, pausing at the doorway, his hand on the door itself, as if he was vacillating over whether to go or stay. He seemed to puzzle a moment longer and then, finally, turned to face Nelson. "With the Admiral's permission," he said almost diffidently, "I would like to...broach something that's ...puzzling me."  
  
"About this mission?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Nelson regarded his young captain who, in his apparent discomfiture over whatever was troubling him, had sunken into the comforting formalities of stiff military-ingrained naval courtesy -as he often did. There was no surprise. Indeed, there was probably very little on the Captain's mind at the moment that he hadn't suspected that he would eventually ask, from the time that the information had been dispensed. They knew each other almost too well. Nelson nodded slightly and gestured for Crane to sit down. "What's bothering you, Lee?"  
  
"Sir..." Crane hesitated again, not entirely certain at this point in time where the need to know ended and outright questioning of his admiral's orders began. While their deep and abiding friendship had occasionally allowed for the stretching of those limitations, there was only so far one could go. He was a captain and Nelson was an admiral. It was always so very difficult... Lee Crane bit his lower lip in automatic pensive gesture as he claimed his seat. "I know that most research stations are under very high security especially when medical investigation is involved, but...what I don't understand is why Antarctic Station Delta, and this mission, are under the highest Presidential security classifications."  
  
"Ah. That."  
  
"If I don't have the proper clearance-" Crane hastened to say.  
  
"No, no, Lee. You do." Nelson straightened up in his seat, kneading a kink that had developed in the small of his back and then folded his hands in front of him. "What we have here is a very sticky situation." Crane regarded him, uncertain. "You see, Antarctic Station Delta did not start out, exactly, as a medical research station... You've heard about the Twelfth Geneva Convention?"  
  
The Captain's expression brightened visibly. "Of course, sir! It's in all the history books -they made some of the greatest strides towards world peace there."  
  
"Well," Nelson continued, a wry smile on his lips, "during that convention, it was discovered that certain governments, that had until then professed otherwise, had large stockpiles of...biological weaponry for the express purpose of eventual massive germ warfare." Crane winced visibly, the Admiral noted, again with no surprise. "Antarctic Station Delta was originally created as a remote facility to destroy these 'weapons' or to find countermeasures to deal with them, though its purpose has long since grown beyond that original goal."  
  
"I take it that records still exist on base of their former purpose?"  
  
"They do," Nelson replied, reaching for the cigarette pack in his shirt and then thought better of it. "And if the knowledge of these secret weapons were made known large, there could be dangerous political repercussions even today -repercussions that we cannot begin to deal with."  
  
"Are you..." Crane paused, not so much surprised by what had just been revealed to him   
-he was too aware of the ways of the world for that- but somehow, very disappointed that the initiatives he had been taught to be the greatest moves toward world peace as such were not quite what they had seemed -perhaps he was merely too naïve. "Are you saying that the Twelfth Geneva Covention's peace prerogatives were based on lies?"  
  
"Some, unfortunately," Nelson said with a sigh as he circled the cabin and then stopped, his gaze fixed on the mounted aerial photograph mounted on the smooth grey wall; the picture that froze forever in time Seaview's very first dive beneath the waves. He observed Crane's brooding countenance. "But for the best of reasons." Crane returned his glance. "As much as most of us abhor the necessity of the lie, hiding the truth this time was and is a fair price to pay for avoiding another world war -one we would almost undoubtedly not survive."  
  
"Hence the order to consider possible 'containment' procedures?"  
  
Nelson winced at the word 'containment', but nodded soberly. "If necessary -most definitely, but not unless there is no other choice. We are sailors...not assassins."   
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
Nelson noted Crane's muted response in the back of his mind for further contemplation -a statement of acknowledgment, not agreement...not that he had expected it. Lee Crane had been trained to fight and, if necessary, kill -as efficiently with his bare hands as with a gun...but it wasn't in his nature to kill if he could avoid it. But Nelson knew that the horrible reality of it was that he did not need willingness or agreement; just obedience and the ability to follow orders. It was a moot point in the ParaNavy as well as the regular Navy -they both knew that. "Is there anything else, Lee?"  
  
Crane shook his head as he rose from his chair, his expression a perfect mask of inscrutability. "No, sir. I'll set course right now and get us under way." He headed for the door.  
  
"Lee," Nelson said suddenly.  
  
Crane turned, his mien one of puzzlement and then, just as quickly, one of caution. Nelson's stern grim countenance softened as he studied the young captain, giving way to an expression of paternal concern. Crane felt an annoying, nearly choking tingle that heralded a coughing fit beginning to inch its way up his already irritated esophagus and swallowed, hoping against hope to suppress it. "Yes, sir?"  
  
Nelson regarded him a moment longer and then: "Are you all right?"  
  
For what seemed to be the longest time, the Captain felt his voice falter. He was fully aware that he had no real talent for the devious, for lying -his forthright nature had gotten him into far more scrapes and disagreements than he cared to admit- and the truth of it was that he felt absolutely miserable; far more than he had any intention of admitting -everything hurt. He despised being sick or helpless, but if there was anyone in the world that he cared less to try to lie about it than Admiral Nelson, he did not know who it might have been. Never in his memory had he been able to look Harriman Nelson in the eye -and lie. "All right...sir?"  
  
A small frown had darkened Nelson's ruddy features. "I was just wondering -you look a little pale. I'd noticed it when you first came in."  
  
"Perhaps I need more sun," Crane offered, avoiding Nelson's penetrating gaze. Partial truth -better than none. He had no intention of serving this cruise in the Sick Bay when there was no need.  
  
Nelson nodded slowly, accepting Crane's answer, but not entirely convinced by it. "You're certain? I had heard that there was a particularly virulent strain of influenza going around in the Santa Barbara coastal area and if you're not up to-"  
  
"I'm fine, sir. Really," Crane countered. "I wouldn't be on this mission if I didn't consider myself fit enough."  
  
"Very well then," Nelson conceded with a small sigh. "Perhaps we should all spend some more time in the sun when this mission is through -a week never seems quite enough, does it?"  
  
"Maybe...we could touch port in the Bahamas next time? For repairs of course."  
  
Nelson found the Captain's humor infectious and laughed aloud. He had worried needlessly over unfounded nebulous concerns. "I'll see what I can do -carry on."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
  
  
  
The cough finally erupted as a half-muffled gasp as Lee Crane clamped his hand -hard- over his mouth, his cheeks flushing a warm red. That had been close. Too close. And though the charade had been played to its logical conclusion, he had already accepted that he would have been a fool to have believed that his admiral had been deceived by it entirely if at all. Nelson was too smart and he, too poor an actor to have pulled off the role convincingly. It was more like an understanding between them. As long as something didn't pose a danger to the safety or efficient running of this ship and her crew, ask few questions and one needed tell few lies. Or something like that. For some reason, he couldn't quite remember the saying at this point in time and couldn't be bothered to dwell on it. Time was too precious. Especially now.  
  
My God, what was he and his crew getting into now? He remembered once viewing one of those old Navy ads on an archival laser disk; clear in his mind, the images of beaming young men and women, braced and eager to join the U.S. Navy and the voice-over vociferously proclaiming: "The Navy -it's not a job, it's an adventure!" Adventures he and his crew had had plenty -for the most part, of the human-made variety, and some...some not.  
  
Adventures...none of those ads could have prepared him or any of his crew for the things they had come to know and experience -both wonderful and terrible. The general public had heard, no doubt, of the old, famed "Project Blue Book" and the enigmatic program, the "X-Files", both government projects dealing with either extraterrestrials or the paranormal, and viewed them with the same conviction that they had for the cheesy tabloids published en masse and available at any local magazine store. Few realized how far the accepted boundaries of reality diverged from the actual reality -that was where the ParaNavy -and Seaview- came in; they took on the missions that the government preferred not to admit existed at all.  
  
Science fiction writers of television and literature had absolutely no idea how close they sometimes came to the truth...and for the sake of the general peace, they could not know. Crane quickly descended the metal spiral staircase that led from Officers' Country to the brain of the Seaview -the Control Room.  
  
Of all the wonders and horrors that he had known and experienced firsthand -the alien lifeforms, the creations of science gone wrong, the realities within realities- none of it frightened him nearly as much as the horrors that humanity could visit upon itself deliberately or worse perhaps, in error. Again, he wondered, what was he and his crew getting into now? He knew that he wasn't half as religious as he suspected that he should have been, nor was he as superstitious as some, but that didn't stop the Captain of the Seaview from praying that this mission didn't prove to be the one that they could not handle.  
  
Chip Morton looked up sharply from the plotting table as his captain descended the spiral staircase, a grim brooding expression on the Captain's countenance. The Executive Officer let the HB pencil that he had been mindlessly drumming on the table's plexi-glass surface fall from his hand to roll to the table's opposite end as Crane surreptitiously glanced from side to side and quickly joined him there. "So..?" the Executive Officer asked, sotto voce.  
  
Crane exhaled deeply. "It's worse than we thought," he said in a similar muted voice. "The Station was up to some pretty illegal shit that our government and others do not want the general public to realize they were aware of all the time -and they may have been working on something worse on their own." He glanced to his side again. "And none of it can be made public unless we want another world war. 'Containment' may not be optional."  
  
Morton paled. "Jesus..."  
  
"I know." Crane observed the crew in the Control Room and noted that despite the fact that they had not been told any details, they all somehow appeared more on edge, almost painfully alert. It was unusual to secure shore leave rotation before it was complete without a good reason -especially when they all deserved it. Crane clapped Morton on the shoulder. "Lay in a course of 180 degrees relative -specifics to follow. I'm going to have a word with the crew."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
Crane lifted the communicator mike on the periscope island from its metal cradle and brought it to his mouth, clicking the button that piped its signal to every speaker throughout the entirety of Seaview. Though he had yet to speak, several of the crew had already noticed and were waiting for what they knew not, but waiting anyway. "This is the Captain. By now, I am sure you all know that liberty rotation has been temporarily secured." There was the soft buzz of voices as a ripple of agreement and acknowledgment went through the crew to be silenced by a sweeping, sharp glare of warning from Chief Sharkey.  
  
"By Executive order, we have been called on an emergency mission to the Antarctic. An important science installation there needs our help and, perhaps, so do fellow submariners on the S.S.N. Voyageur." Dead silence. "While we cannot be certain of the circumstances of their S.O.S. at this time, I am obligated to tell you that we must prepare for any contingency...even for the worst. Crew chiefs will report to the Wardroom at 1300 hours to receive their assignments. Carry on." Crane set the mike down and turned to speak to Morton. "Take her down, Mr. Morton."  
  
"Aye, sir!" Morton responded in a clipped, military tone, respecting the subtle shift that came between them when duty was paramount. "Mr. O'Brien," he called to the young, dark-haired lieutenant, "clear the deck and make preparations to dive!"  
  
"Aye aye, sir!" O'Brien responded immediately.  
  
"Make it 90 feet, Mr. Morton," Crane ordered.  
  
"Aye, sir -90 feet," came the Executive Officer's response. "Prepare to dive."  
  
Crane viewed the efficient, ordered activity around him with a satisfaction that bordered on awe. So many individual crew members aboard the giant submarine and yet, while on duty, they acted with one purpose; each part acting in perfect synchronicity between themselves and the ship so that Seaview almost became a living thing. The deck was cleared and the overhead hatch slammed shut, sealing them all off from the outside world with a loud, clanging note of finality as the diving horn blasted twice -no-one could not hear it. The ballast tank indicators in front of Chief Sharkey changed, one by one, from red to green. "All green!" he barked.  
  
A low, distinct rumble throbbed throughout Seaview's massive hull as she pulled away from the rippling coastal waters off of Santa Barbara and headed to open waters. There was a deep feeling of anticipatory tension among the crew that they almost never failed to experience before a dive; truly, it was almost as if the great silver grey vessel herself was eager to be completely unfettered by coastal boundaries and be free and at sea again. Once again there was the double blast of the diving horn as Lieutenant O'Brien pressed the button. "Dive! Dive! Dive!"  
  
The Seaview's blunt nose seemed to cut through the choppy waters like a hot knife through butter as the waves bashed against her towering super-tempered plastic alloy viewing ports and then swallowed them entirely.  
  
Morton approached Crane. "Final trim, sir. Depth nine-oh feet and 1/3 speed."  
  
Crane paused before responding. "Make it 150 feet and all ahead -flank. Until further notice, hold her wide open."  
  
A response that would have come dangerously close to sounding like he was openly questioning his captain's orders and, perhaps, his judgment as well, fluttered on Morton's lips before he swallowed it. "Aye, sir. One five-oh feet and flank speed until further notice." Crane exited the Control Room and Morton watched him go, wondering how much he had not been told.  
  
  
2  
  
  
He was hungry. The reality of it had been a whisper for the days that had preceded this one; the faint echo of instinct within the ragged remains of his mind, a small voice that kept repeating the same thing until he could hear nothing else -not that there was anything else to listen to, really. His voice had finally given out after days of bellowing, screaming, and raging and was now a hoarse whimper. Nothing else to hear but the voice within his mind. He was hungry. He was thirsty. There was no difference between the two -both needs had fused into one great Hunger...and the Voice gleefully continued to remind him of that. The Voice no longer whispered. It shouted.  
  
Mewling like a wounded animal, he licked at his fingers, his tongue rasping against the digits and then stopped in frustrated disgust. The last of the blood of that lab rat he had killed was gone and there was no more...no more that he could catch. Rats were small and could hide in places that even he could not go...and it was the blood that he needed, wasn't it? The Voice said so. He had resisted the hunger for the longest time and now that it was all that mattered, there was little of it left.  
  
"So what did waiting avail you?" the Voice demanded. "You lick at your wounds like a hunted thing and you know full well that they heal too quickly to get much out of them even if you could stand the taste. Feed and be shut of the pain for awhile. There's still one of them left."  
  
The Voice was right as always. There was one more left -he had known that all along. And he needed to taste the metallic savor of human blood to make the change complete; resisting had only delayed the inevitable, not stopped it from happening as he had once hoped. But he couldn't feed. Though he could smell the scent of warm human flesh, though he could all but feel the human presence, he could not reach it. The solid, thick wall of silver metal was an insurmountable barrier between them. If there was some magical word to force entry, he could not remember it, and though he had scratched at the hard, cold metal until his nails cracked and his own blood had run down his fingers, that damned door still held...and the humanity in his blood was so thin now that the taste of it was bitter, almost foul.  
  
The shrinking part of him that was still human begged for release in death, but, as the Voice reminded him, he no longer knew how to die...and so, he would wait...wait for- He suddenly stopped his lumbering pacing and crouched still and statue-like, sniffing dog-like at the bitterly cold air, a low burring growl building within his throat. The unattainable temptation behind the wall of grey metal was forgotten while he reached out with his sharp senses, searching for -what? Nothing. There was nothing and no-one there, but he could feel... something...a sensation so faint it was like the touch of a fruit fly's wing, a rippling in the ether that was growing closer though it was still so very distant...too distant to be of use for a long while yet. "But not for long," the Voice said with malicious glee.  
  
Not for long, he concurred as his tongue washed over his sharp teeth in an anticipation that repulsed only that tiny, dying part of him that still wished to remain human. He glared at the imposing metal barrier and sniffed, drinking in the human scent behind it.  
  
He would wait.  
  
  
  
  
Darkness. It was the deep of the night sky or that of the inky depths of starless space...a cold lightless void that seemed to go on forever. And in a way, it was space -inner space. The murky depths of the sea. At this enormous depth, no light from the surface world, even though it was the height of day, could penetrate the black waters that surrounded Seaview as she plunged ahead at flank speed, her electronic illumination array and the almost blinding beam of light that emitted from her nose's strobe lamp, reduced to a sickly muted greenish beam that was hard-pressed to pierce the unfathomable gloom. At this point, were it not for her infra-red electronic sensors, the great titanic lady of the sea would have been half-blind in this submarinal world of endless night.  
  
Admiral Nelson stabbed a button beside the Sick Bay's viewing screen. With a small starburst of light, the screen went blank as he stared at it, pondering what he had seen, contemplating how utterly alone Seaview was at these lightless depths, and then turned away.   
  
"Here. Take these." Nelson accepted the pale beige oblong pills and the small paper cup of water that Doc, the Seaview's chief medical officer, had handed him. For a moment, he studied the pills with a half-suspicious frown of loathing and then quickly swallowed them with a draught of the cold liquid, shuddering at the bitter taste the pills left as they caught at the back of his throat and then were washed away.  
  
Doc noted the twisted expression on his admiral's countenance with fleeting amusement. "Come now, Admiral, they don't taste all that bad. Most patients tell me that Famotidine is fairly tasteless."  
  
"So you say, Doc," Nelson muttered with a pained grimace of disgust. He crumpled the paper cup in his hand and tossed it into the waste basket at his side. "You're not the one who had to take them."  
  
"That is true," Doc admitted, still permitting himself a small grin at how peevish even the highest ranking officers could be when obliged to take their medicine. "However, just avoid Cookie's Chili Caliente from now on, hmn? Heartburn is never a joke."  
  
"We'll see." Harriman Nelson observed the Seaview's doctor as the man resealed the plastic container of pale beige pills, placed them in the medical supply cabinet and then closed it. He found himself studying the austere sterile surroundings that was the Sick Bay's ante-room with some interest, mentally taking note of what he already knew of Seaview's medical capacities, concerned over what he did not. "So?" he said after a long heavy silence that seemed to be dragging on a little to long for his liking.  
  
Doc flashed Nelson an ill-concealed frown. He sighed aloud and brushed aside a strand of hair that had drifted into his eyes. "You know how I feel about projects like Station Delta," he said quietly.  
  
"I also know that there was and may still be a need for them," Nelson countered almost gently.  
  
"Yes...I know..." Doc admitted reluctantly. "And I can't deny that they have done the world a great service...the cures discovered there were invaluable, but their primary purpose... My...God, Admiral -weaponry for germ warfare! there should never have been a need to have a disposal plant for weapons like those!"  
  
"True. But at the moment, that's a moot point."  
  
Doc considered his admiral's words, accepting the truth in them, albeit with the same reluctance. In what he had to concede was old-fashioned naiveté, he had never been able to fathom how anyone could fashion and use weapons that were, in their own way, more dangerous and unstable than the radioactive fuel that powered this underwater vessel. "And what about the taped warning, Admiral? A biological experiment gone out of control?"  
  
Nelson did not immediately meet Doc's eyes. Something about the official government line on Antarctic Station Delta's supposed purpose had not entirely rung true to him either. "I hope not," he said grimly. "The station has been a pure medical research base for years."  
  
"Perhaps," Doc admitted almost begrudgingly as he sat behind his desk. "However, considering Station Delta's history as you explained it, and the fact that even the most important medical research does not usually require Executive-level security clearance, I find myself wondering just how many dirty little war weapons secretly exist there even now." Doc paused for a long moment, staring at nothing in particular as his shoulders heaved with a heavy breath. "However," he continued wearily, "all of Seaview's medical, anti-contamination, decontamination, and containment facilities are, in my opinion, more than capable of handling whatever we may be facing -including infectious contamination and survivors, if it comes to that."  
  
Nelson offered a grateful smile. "As I knew it would be."  
  
Just then, both men looked up as they both heard a familiar electronic tone and the squawk box mounted on the bulkhead burst to life. "Admiral Nelson, please report to the Control Room," came the curiously slightly agitated voice of Captain Crane.  
  
Nelson flicked a switch on Doc's desk communicator. "Nelson here," he responded smoothly. "What is it, Lee?"  
  
"At present speed, we are within five hours of Antarctic Station Delta. Sparks has been unable to establish communications with them at this time."  
  
Nelson studied the communicator for a long pause. "Polar magnetic flux?"  
  
"No, sir," came the response. "Radio transmissions are not being obstructed and the airways are clear -as far as Sparks can tell, they're simply not responding." There was a pause, as if from hesitation. "That's not all, sir," Crane continued. "Our sensor array indicates that we are approaching what appears to be the outlying area of an ecological dead-zone."  
  
Doc looked up with troubled surprise and Nelson returned the glance with similar concern. "Dead-zone" was the most recent, internationally accepted term for any terrestrial land or sea area devoid of natural or naturalized biological life whether flora or fauna, whether by natural means...or unnatural. The Sahara Desert had once been declared 90% dead-zone -as recently as of the end of the twentieth century. Only through the most arduous efforts of the international terraforming community had that classification been revised and changed to a mere "50% dead-zone". How there could have been a dead-zone in the Antarctic when life teemed there at very least at the microbial level Harriman Nelson found that he could not answer. Nelson spoke into the desk communicator, knowing even as he said the words that his response was fairly lame. "There are no dead-zones registered for the Antarctic."  
  
"Yes, sir," Crane responded, not quite successful at expunging from his voice a tone that said that he already knew the fact very well. "Shall we send out a remote submarinal probe unit to take water and soil samples?"  
  
"No. Just take note of the area for further study and for registration. We'll come back to it and check it out when we have more time."  
  
"Aye, sir. Crane out."  
  
Nelson frowned pensively as he quietly placed the communicator back on Doc's desk, well aware of the doctor's eyes upon him all the while, questioning silently...and he had no answers to give. Dead air and now, a dead-zone... As the circumstances metamorphosed into dreaded omens before the primitive part of his all too human psyche, he liked where they were leading less and less. An ice-cold finger of apprehension traveled down the Admiral's spine as he again caught sight of the medical man's clouded expression. Doc's suspicions were beginning to sound far too plausible.  
  
  
  
  
"I don't like this. I don't like it at all..."   
  
Seaman Patterson glanced up from the monochromatic screen of the fathometer; his station on this seemingly endless watch, and furtively looked over to his side. Not much more than an arm's length from his station, Kowalski sat hunched over the sonar, its light bathing his stern, brooding countenance in pale green as the sonar ping blipped and faded...blipped and faded...the sound almost becoming one with the constant electronic drone that permeated every section of the bulkhead and deck in the Control Room. Patterson sighed softly and rubbed his eyes with his free hand while his other pressed against the part of the head-set that covered his left ear, no longer certain that he had heard his comrade-at-arms say anything at all. The electronic murmur was almost hypnotic and he was growing tired.  
  
"Pat..!"  
  
Patterson's eyes darted uneasily to the opposite side, assuring himself that the Captain and the Executive Officer were well out of earshot and that Chief Sharkey was still marking co-ordinates on the Control Room's plexi-glass vertical plotter, before nudging the earphone from his ear and answering in a similar secretive whisper: "What?"  
  
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Kowalski murmured, not taking his eyes from the pulsing sonar screen.  
  
"About what?"  
  
"The mission," Kowalski answered flatly. He looked away from the sonar board for just a second; just long enough to catch sight of the expression on Patterson's face; a look that said his fellow crewman was likely thinking: "Oh, brother -not again." He ignored it, returning his steady gaze to the pulsing screen. "Think about," he said, pressing the point he was eager to make. "Usually, the Skipper tells us all mission details once we're at sea, right?"  
  
Hesitantly and uncertain that he liked the direction that this conversation was taking, Patterson slowly nodded in agreement. "Right. So..?"  
  
"This time, we get told sweet fuck all until we need to know."  
  
"Well...yeah...but the Skipper must have a reason..."  
  
"I know, I know..." Kowalski admitted begrudgingly. "I know he knows what he's doing, but I'd like to know what we're going to be doing. Remember what happened that time we were kept in the dark about a really big mission?"  
  
"We've been kept in the dark plenty of times," Patterson countered tiredly.  
  
"In the Arctic..? When the Skipper first signed on..?"  
  
"Oh...yeah," Patterson said, his face twisting with a small grimace at the memory -he had spent most of that cruise in Seaview's bowels, doing some sort of filthy maintenance duty, but he remembered it...oh yes, he remembered that mission, all right. "A routine cruise that turned out to be a mission to plant a bomb-"  
  
"-to stop a big quake that would've swamped a good hunk of the western coast...with God-knows-who taking potshots at us all the way."  
  
"You've got a suspicious mind, 'Ski."  
  
"Maybe, but I-" Kowalski stopped mid-sentence and quickly returned his gaze to the sonar screen with ferocious intensity. "Heads up," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "The Skipper at four o'clock."  
  
As the two crewmen studiously bent to their respective tasks, the sound of heavy footfalls behind them announced their commanding officer's nearing presence -announced, one would have to say because unless Captain Crane wished to be heard, it was more likely than not that he would not be heard. Lee Crane studied the pulsing screen, well aware of the conversation that had taken place, but feeling no mood at the present to make an issue of it. "Nothing?" he questioned dully, more out of habit than a real need to know. He could read the sonar board as well as any man aboard this great ship...and far better than some. And the board was disturbingly clear.  
  
"Nothing, sir," Kowalski responded, a muted note of puzzled wonder in his voice. "No contact -natural or mechanical. A real dead-zone."  
  
Crane nodded, sympathetic to the weariness and crushing boredom he sensed all around him -his crew had less idea of what was really going on than he and in the face of that, routine was becoming oppressive. He clapped Kowalski on the shoulder in a familiar, encouraging gesture. "Just keep with it, 'Ski."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
Crane turned as he heard the steps of Chief Sharkey coming towards him. Usually cheerful, the Chief Petty Officer's rough countenance had taken on a look of profound concern. What the Captain knew about this mission -what the crew would soon have to know- Francis Sharkey already knew. The difference between them was that the rough-edged Brooklynite was, by nature, thoroughly unskilled at masking the fact that it all worried him to the core of his being. "Fathometer isn't getting anything, sir. Neither is the hydrophone. There's nothing out there. It's like an underwater mausoleum."  
  
"It doesn't make sense..." Crane muttered in helpless frustration. "I can almost accept a sudden ecological shift creating a new dead-zone, but we're four hours from Station Delta and we should at least be getting some indications of the presence of the S.S.N. Voyageur."  
  
Chief Sharkey nodded sagely. "Yes, sir. That would be right, sir. Maybe...maybe they're just doing underwater maneuvers under anti-detection screening?"  
  
"Perhaps...but that wouldn't-" A decision formed in Crane's mind, his dark eyes narrowing. He turned sharply in the direction of the Radio Shack and pulled aside the obscuring curtain which cut it off from the rest of the Control Room. Sparks looked up from his console with mild surprise and nudged aside an earphone. "Yes, sir?"  
  
"Sparks... I want you to send out a message -widest possible beam. Try to make contact with the Voyageur. Send Captain Hudson my personal compliments and inform him that he must break radio silence -this is of the highest emergency priority."  
  
"What if he asks who authorized the break in radio silence?"  
  
Crane's expression became pained. "Tell him InterAllied gave permission...tell him his president gave the o.k. -just tell him something!"  
  
"Aye, sir!" Sparks responded smartly and quickly turned back to his console.  
  
"Anything, Lee?"  
  
"Not a thing, Chip." The Captain glanced back at the radio operator, hunched over his set, repeating the message that he had given him -which Sparks would continue to do until there was a response or until his captain had ordered otherwise...if his voice didn't give out first. Crane kneaded a growing stiffness in the back of his neck. "He's sending, but so far, Voyageur's not answering."  
  
"You remember that message transmission..?" Morton asked cryptically.  
  
Crane regarded the Seaview's executive officer darkly and then slowly nodded, drumming his long fingers tunelessly on the railing that surrounded the periscope island. "I'd like to be able to forget it... Besides...there's still the slight chance that-"  
  
"Skipper, could you an' Mr. Morton take a look at this?" Crane and Morton started Chief Sharkey's voice. They both strided the distance to where the Chief stood brooding at the glowing sonar screen. "What is it, Chief?" Crane demanded.  
  
"'Ski?" Sharkey prompted.  
  
The scarlet-uniformed seaman's brow furrowed with perturbation as he gestured to the pulsing unit with a slight tilt of his head. "I've got a metal contact," he said in a low voice as he made some quick adjustments to the instrumentation. "Bearing...two-zero-two. Range...one thousand five hundred feet." He exhaled deeply. "And whatever it is, sir, it's big -really big...maybe as big as Seaview."  
  
Morton and Crane locked eyes for a long moment before the XO glanced at the screen and said softly: "Voyageur...is seven hundred feet -from bow to stern." He paused and added, a deeply troubled cast to his visage: "Fifty feet shy of the length...and just less than the bulk of the Seaview." Crane just inclined his head slowly -he already knew.  
  
"It definitely profiles like a sub," Patterson added, at the fathometer. "Eight...hundred and thrity-nine feet down on some sort of rocky outcropping." He looked away from his station. "It's not moving, sir."  
  
Riley pressed the hydrophone earpiece to his ear. The usually everpresent exuberance of youth had been replaced by a frown of uncertainty. "Nothing. There's no sound coming from it at all."  
  
"Chip..." Commander Morton met his captain's stern and yet troubled gaze. "Inform the Admiral that we may have located the Voyageur." Before the Executive Officer turned away, Crane added quietly: "Also tell him that it looks like she's down." Morton nodded gravely and went to tend to his duty.  
  
Crane grimaced inwardly, too aware of the non-physical nausea that twisted in the pit of his stomach. It was every sailor's nightmare, wasn't it, that the waters on which he sailed and served might one day claim his life. "Secure call. Prepare the micronic viewing units."  
  
"The new viewing unit, Skipper?" Sharkey asked, surprised. "It hasn't been field-tested yet."  
  
"No time like the present, Chief," Crane said with the slightest smile twitching at the corners of his thin lips, almost exorcising the gnawing worry that had plagued him since the beginning of this mission...but not quite. Micronized laser-eye cameras focused on the specially treated, newly installed viewing ports which were presently clear, revealing the dark blue/green waters that surrounded the Seaview -if this unit actually worked, it would render many of the conventional onboard camera viewers that most submarines used obsolete. "Activate viewing unit." At the Captain's command, the viewing ports themselves became a series of massive viewing screens, a stage for what was essentially a two-dimensional hologram. "Activate telescopic lens and focus on contact."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
The Control Room crew fell silent and Crane himself blanched a sickly yellow. "Ah, Jesus..." he whispered, horrified. The picture flickered and snapped into sharper focus, Seaview's powerful strobe light illuminating endless night into the grim murkiness of twilight. There, propped precariously close to the precipice of a massive ledge of rock that towered over a lightless, seemingly endless chasm, was the silent, unmoving monolithic form of a submarine similar in shape and design to the Seaview though not the same. The strobes burned across the once sleek hull that had only recently been steel-silver/grey, but was now so encrusted in places by silt and dirt that it was difficult to determine her original lines or color. The beams danced over the dead ship's hull until they rested over a certain spot, revealing at last, her name: "S.S.N. Voyageur".  
  
"Is it Voyageur?"  
  
Crane looked to his side, caught Admiral Nelson's expression of haunted disbelief, and nodded. "Yes, sir. We're quite certain."  
  
"What...what could have happened to her? With her power and capabilities, she should have-" Nelson squinted, cursing vanity and absent-mindedness that he had neglected to put his reading glasses in his breast pocket. "Lee...increase magnification by...25%." The picture jumped, focused and grew. "Focus on the stern section." The Admiral's ruddy complexion blanched. "My God..." The dark mass along Voyageur's stern section that had attracted Nelson's attention came into sharp focus, so defined now that it was revealed for what it really was: a massive, gaping hole literally torn from the ship's thick, scorched hull of titanium and steel.  
  
Morton's lips worked silently until he whispered: "Whatever hit her, hit her hard."  
  
"Nothing hit her, Chip," Nelson countered grimly.  
  
Commander Morton regarded his admiral silently, questioning. "Sir?"  
  
"Look at the bulging along the hull and the edges of the breach..." Nelson explained somberly, his eyes riveted to the image on the screen. "That metal's been twisted outwards, not inwards. I'd say that whatever blasted the Voyageur's hull, came from inside."   
  
"Sabotage..." Crane said in a ragged whisper. His eyes widened with horrific realization. "What Captain Hudson said on the emergency transmission..." Nelson acknowledged his captain's words with a tilt of his furrowed brow. Lee Crane swallowed deeply and squared his shoulders, a mask of perfect military composure covering the roiling emotions within him, aware that the Control Room crew was staring, expecting him to say something...the right thing. Anything. "Johnson, what are we getting on the neutron counter?"  
  
"Radiation nominal, sir," the crewman responded, slightly puzzled. "Reactor output is zero -they must have been cold for more than a day."  
  
Crane frowned, mentally reviewing what he knew off-hand about Voyageur's designs and capabilities. "Admiral, what is the compliment of the Voyageur's nuclear arsenal?"  
  
"Twenty-five Trident-XII missiles...specials...eight birds per missile...200 warheads in all," the Admiral answered matter-of-factly.  
  
"Explosive potential?"  
  
Nelson calculated silently in his mind, seeing now where the Captain's questions were leading. "About 52 kiloTonnes nominal yield each unit...approximately five times the nuclear force of the blast that leveled Hiroshima in the mid-twentieth century during World War II...perhaps more."  
  
"Christ..." Crane hissed. "Johnson, what are the readings from Voyageur's missile silos?"  
  
"Radiation nominal -no leakage...insulation intact. The silos are in good order."  
  
"Keep an eye on those readings."  
  
"Aye, sir!"  
  
"We're going to have to off-load them, Admiral," Crane said uneasily. "We can't leave World War III at the bottom of the ocean."  
  
"We will once this mission is over," Nelson agreed.  
  
"But for now..?"  
  
"For now, organize a diving party for a reconnaissance mission," Nelson ordered. "We have to know what happened to her."  
  
  
  
  
It had all the appearance of a costume from some sort of science fiction television serial. Though it had been put through all of the rigors that the Nelson Institute's research and safety teams could make it suffer; though it had been twisted this way and that until final approval had been given, seaman Patterson held the light-weight helmet of the experimental deep-sea diving suit at arm's length, viewing the unit with profound suspicion.  
  
The suit itself was not rubber, as was a normal diving suit -nor metal as the old-fashioned deep-sea diving suits- but was comprised of a synthetic material the labs at the Nelson Institute had cooked up just for Seaview; a material easily three times lighter and thinner than rubber; something that would protect the wearer from the pressures that would otherwise crush the human body like an aluminum can under the heel of one's shoe, and from the bitter cold of depths that would kill by hypothermia just as quickly. Patterson adjusted the fit of the suit -the material felt like a second skin...just about as comfortable as well.  
  
The new helmet was far more compact than a conventional helmet; no more than two inches of micronized mechanics or material form-fitted around the human head, a silver-dollar-sized transmitting camera mounted over the right eye -what the diver saw, the crew of the Seaview would see on the onboard video monitors. All in all though, he found himself wishing that the Flying Sub wasn't still laid up for repairs. Into high-tech seafaring technology would some of humanity go -even if only kicking and screaming.  
  
Patterson was shrugged into the harness for his deep-sea air tanks and glanced over to where his fellow diving-party members were also shrugging into their deep-sea diving gear. Chief Sharkey, and seamen Burns, Willis, Donato, and Jurgen were almost completely suited up as was Commander Morton, who was heading up this detail, and was making final adjustments on his diving helmet. "I feel like Alan Shepard or something..."  
  
"Who?"  
  
Patterson regarded Chief Sharkey with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "Alan Shepard...you know...one of the original astronauts -on the Mercury missions." He stopped and puzzled for a moment. "Went up in the mid-twentieth century sometime, I think."   
  
"Nineteen sixty...uh, sixty-one...May fifth," Burns chimed in and then went back to adjusting his suit.  
  
"I know that!" Sharkey snapped, a flush coming to his temples. "I did pass that night-course on twentieth-century events I went for, you know!" His lips pursed in mildly embarrassed disgust. "Besides, why would you be feeling like an astronaut?"  
  
"C'mon, Chief," Patterson protested earnestly. "I mean, the sea is like space, right? And these new suits are like the ones the original astronauts wore -they didn't know for sure if they were going to work until they actually tried them out."  
  
"Of course they'll work," Sharkey muttered, a devilish spark coming to his eyes as he pulled on his protective gloves. "I know it for a fact."  
  
"How do you know?" Patterson retorted suspiciously.  
  
"The three divers that tested this design just before they were turned over to us went down to ten thousand and fifty feet for over two hours without a hitch and they're doing just fine."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Sure," Sharkey replied sweetly, the devilish spark in his eyes now a gleam. "And one of them gave birth to a litter o' pups just last week."   
  
Patterson opened his mouth in silent, aghast disbelief before turning away to make an extra final safety check on his own suit, a frown of dismay creasing his brow. At that moment, an electronic tone broke the sudden silence as the speaker on the Missile Room's bulkhead burst to life. "We have just established a cruising circle around the Voyageur," came Captain Crane's slightly tinny-sounding voice. "The deep-sea detail is instructed to make ready."  
  
"Diving party ready," Commander Morton barked into the wall mike. He set the mike down into its metal cradle and gave his diving team a visual once-over, noting their collectively uneasy expressions...knowing that what they showed in their faces openly, the position of command did not permit him the luxury of showing himself. "I don't know what we're going to see down there," he said as flatly as he was capable, "but it's a given that it is unlikely to be pleasant. Our mission is to retrieve the Voyageur's automatic voice log, the captain's safe, and any pertinent papers. We are also, if possible, to discover what brought the Voyageur down. Any questions? Willis?"  
  
The crewman fidgeted uneasily before speaking. "What about survivors?" Commander Morton shot the crewman a baleful glare as the man shook his head regretfully, realizing what he had said. At this depth, in the Voyageur's present condition, there would be no survivors.  
  
  
  
  
"Divers are emerging from the airlock."  
  
Admiral Nelson turned his attention away from the viewing screen, his expression grim and thoughtful. "How are their signals coming in, Lee?"  
  
"Checking now, sir." Lee Crane leaned closer to the communications' instrumentation panel, the flickering glow of the frequency power indicators reflecting off his grim countenance as he put hand to mouth and surreptitiously stifled a cough that traveled up his throat and then died. At a touch, seven indicators lighted up and seven digital point-of-view images appeared on the main micronic-enhanced screen. "Gentlemen, your signals are coming in loud and clear except..." He paused, unconsciously adjusting the earphone of the headset that he wore as his smile of satisfaction gave way to a scowl of sudden annoyance. "Chief Sharkey..."  
  
"Yes, sir?" came the Chief Petty Officer's voice over the console speaker.  
  
"We're getting some definite interference on your visual transmission. Please check your frequency."  
  
"Aye, sir!"  
  
Crane studied the second of the transmission pictures -far more than the others that were experiencing random minor interference due to some sort of residue magnetic energy whose source he had yet to define, Sharkey's visual was confounded by electronic snow, fading in and out like a television whose cable has been cut. All of a sudden, there was a burst of brilliance and the image was sharp, almost pristine in its clarity as the Captain of the Seaview saw what Sharkey saw as he was seeing it. "Visual is clear, Chief."  
  
"Yes, sir. The frequency was off by two and a half points... I never was much good with cameras."  
  
Crane chuckled despite himself...despite the situation. "Admiral, they're all presently coming in loud and clear -on both audio and visual frequencies."  
  
"And the new deep-sea diving gear?"  
  
"All in excellent working order."  
  
Nelson acknowledged the affirmative response with a slight tilt of his head, silently wishing that he could feel as hopeful in his outlook as his captain seemed to be. Crane had quietly turned to continue his careful watch over the instruments that would ultimately track the diving party's every move. It was at that precise moment that Nelson had the sudden urge to pull the young commanding officer aside and tell him that he didn't think that the government -their government, any government- was telling everything they needed to know, that something about this mission stank to high Heaven, that as a scientist even the hint of genetic weapons scared him to the core of his soul...  
  
But he didn't.   
  
Harriman Nelson shook his head, softly chiding himself for giving into that instinct that gave into fear of the unknown even for a silent instant, and then trained his steady gaze on the multi-signal viewing screen. "Then let us see what we shall see."  
  
  
  
  
"And yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of-"  
  
"Chief?"  
  
Chief Sharkey drew a sharp breath, sending bubbles erupting into the bitterly cold sea water as Commander Morton swam back to the rear of the diving party as they left Seaview in the distance. The Executive Officer 's bright yellow deep-sea diving suit was hardly distinguishable from the red material that made up Sharkey's suit at these depths. The XO swam closer to the Chief Petty Officer's side. "Is something wrong?" he asked, studying him.  
  
Though Sharkey had the training and experience to operate the throat mike attached to the throat-piece of his head-gear, a communications' unit which translated esophageal vibrations (essentially one "hummed" the words) into transmittable sound frequencies, his voice, at first, came out in a meek sort of squeak. "Wrong...sir?"  
  
Through the infra-red-capable visor of the experimental deep-sea diving suit, Sharkey could see that the Executive Officer's brow had creased with concern. "Are you all right?" Morton asked again, pressing the mike closer to his throat as if he thought that Sharkey might not have heard him correctly the first time. "I thought I heard you saying something."  
  
Mortified embarrassment at having been overheard when he hadn't realized that he had unfortunately, actually, spoken aloud in the first place, reddened the Chief's face. He found himself relieved to realize that because of the diving masks, it was unlikely that Morton had noticed the unconscious reaction. "Uh...yes, sir. I was...just talking to myself... Sorry, sir."  
  
"All right..." Morton said with a muted sigh, "but try to keep icy, Chief. These boys don't need to see either of us lose it out here."  
  
"Aye, sir." Sharkey watched as Commander Morton took up the lead in the diving party again as they made their way further and further from the comforting presence of the Seaview to the massive dead hulk that had been the pride of the Navy of the Federation of Canada. Dead was an apt description. When a submarine functioned at optimum -when she was at sea with a hard-working and efficient crew serving within her- a submarine was alive, but this...this was truly dead.  
  
The Voyageur lay on her starboard side like a giant toy discarded by a disinterested child...no lights...antenna array crumpled like a used straw...starboard side mostly buried by the tonnes of dirt and rock that she had kicked up when she had tumbled or crashed here...port side horribly scorched, puckered and blackened, a massive maw-like breach in the hull...her bow crushed inwards like some weak aluminum can against the mountainous rock by which she lay.  
  
The Voyageur hadn't just died, she had been murdered.  
  
But by what? And why? What did the taped rantings of someone who might or might not have been her captain tell them? That was what they were here to find out, Sharkey reminded himself, suppressing a shudder. Like a railroad train that always seemed so distant until it was all but upon one, the derelict vessel for which the Seaview's diving team headed so painfully slowly, impeded despite their special suits by the press of so much dark and cold seawater, seemed to loom up before them all of a sudden -a great metal beast, its jagged maw wide open, waiting for them to- Sharkey silently cursed his lively imagination for the fleeting imagery that had fluttered before his mind's eye.  
  
"Neutron counter reading?" Morton asked as they drew closer to the huge, gaping hole torn from Voyageur's hull.  
  
Sharkey quickly checked the readings on the palm-sized neutron counter. "Nothing, sir. Reactor's cold. Missile silos are secure."  
  
"But is the ship stable?.." Morton muttered under his breath. "Patterson, take stability readings. I don't want to find her suddenly taking us to the bottom with her."  
  
The monitor chattered in a series of electronic beeps as Patterson waved it up and down in the direction of the giant vessel. He pressed one of the many buttons with his thumb and the chattering stopped. "Whatever sent her down here, sir, must have created a lot of heat because I'd say she's pretty well welded to the rock bed. She isn't going anywhere."  
  
"Do we go in?" Sharkey asked uneasily.  
  
Morton took in the sight of the great dead hulk and nodded grimly. "That's what we're here for."  
  
  
  
It was like a massive underwater tomb. Dark. Empty. Cold. As the Seaview's deep-sea diving team swam through and beyond the jagged-edged hole, it was as if they had passed beyond some threshold between the world of the living and the world of the dead. This was the world of the dead. Usually, by now, the sea would have begun her endless work of claiming whatever the surface world had sent to her. Life, either as water-borne animals or simple flora, would have started to take hold here. But here, in this dead-zone, there was nothing; not even the microbial creatures of the sea that would claim almost anything as a framework on which to build their homes. It was as if the water had been boiled clean.  
  
The giant breach opened into a wide black tunnel-like chasm, walls curiously smooth to the touch, that reached from the outer hull straight to- "Stores locker?"  
  
On the Seaview, Crane frowned in concentration at the scene played out before him on the viewing screen at multiple angles and shook his head slightly. "I don't think so, Admiral. It looks...it looks like a crew's mess room...or what's left of one."  
  
The mess room of the Voyageur was a charred ruin. Once pale, grey walls had been blackened, metal frames twisted and bowed outwards; mangled like scorched thin wire, bits of recently melted metal hung down from what remained of the ceiling like some grotesque tinsel display. The galley no longer existed.  
  
Morton bent down, reaching towards the crazily tilted deck and picked up a twisted scrap of silvery metal that somehow continued to glint obstinately among all this charred ruination, reflecting the light of the portable strobe lamp he carried with him. The object vaguely resembled one of those small metal spatulas any galley chief might use in the course of a day. For all he knew, their cook might have been getting the crew's dinner ready when... The Executive Officer let the piece of metal fall from his hand, biting back the revulsion created by the shadows of imagination inherent in such a macabre train of thought. He sighed heavily and pressed his throat mike. "Morton to Seaview."  
  
"Yes, Chip?" came Crane's voice.  
  
"We've entered what might have been the ship's galley. There's definitely been some kind of explosion in here and a pretty powerful one by the damage we can see."  
  
"Any idea what might have caused it?"  
  
Morton gestured to Sharkey who swam up beside him. The Chief Petty Officer's countenance was almost stricken. "At this point, sir, I can't exactly be sure, but my best guess would be...some sort of plasma-burst bomb. That's the only thing I can think of, outside of a nuclear-based charge, that could have done this kind of damage."  
  
On Seaview, Nelson nodded in grim agreement, remembering the classified government attempt to synthesize an equally infamous super-explosive non-nuclear element -Subterranium 1-16, creating instead something just as destructive though nowhere nearly as stable -plasmacore, the heart of a plasma-burst bomb. "Makes sense...the power of a bomb with a plasmacore explosive pack would melt metal like hot candle wax...and the initial energy pulse could overload the electrical systems that the actual blast didn't touch."  
  
"No..." Crane protested softly though he himself felt inclined to believe the possibility. "No Allied nuclear sub carries plasma-burst bombs -they're too unstable to have, let alone use."  
  
There was a cynical twinkle in Nelson's eye. "Remember reading about the twentieth-century scare that with the right materials and instructions that one could make a nuclear bomb in one's own kitchen?" Nelson returned his gaze to the viewing screen. "There's very little that one can't make if one knows how and has the right resources...or intensity of purpose." He glanced back at his captain who seemed to stand dumbfounded. "The question is not 'how', but why?"  
  
Crane nodded silently and spoke into his mike. "Can you get to the rest of the ship from there?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Morton said, eyeing the misshapen remnants of a hatchway. "We're going to split up into three teams -fore, 'midships, and aft. Willis and I are going up to the captain's cabin for his safe and log. Burns, Jurgen, and Donato are going to check out the Reactor and Missile Rooms. Sharkey and Patterson are going to head for the Control Room and the automatic voice recorder."  
  
"Be careful, Chip. The ship may be in a stable position, but by the looks of things, she's bound to be rocky internally."  
  
"Aye aye, sir." Morton gestured to the rest of the diving party with a sharp wave of his arm. "We meet back here at 1500 hours sharp! Now, let's get on with it."  
  
  
  
  
"The Missile and Reactor Rooms have been sealed off...some sort of super-stressed metal sheeting -maybe titanium or a titanium alloy... It's welded to the bulkhead and over the ventilation gratings that lead to either room. The metal's badly scorched, but secure. It'll take a high-range laser drill to get through it."  
  
"Do you think it was a deliberate effort?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Whoever did this, knew exactly what they were doing."  
  
"All right, Jurgen. Any sign of bodies of the crew yet?"  
  
"No, sir, Mr. Morton. Not yet."  
  
"Well, continue the search. Inform me if you find anything at all. Morton out."  
  
The tell-tale click that signaled a transmission's cessation crackled over the communicator earpiece in each helmet of each diving crew member. Sharkey glanced over his shoulder towards Patterson who followed closely behind. While the up-ended corridor between the crew's mess room and the Voyageur's Control Room had, as they had hoped, proven unblocked thus far, it had also proven far from unobstructed...and the bits of debris that they had to push aside to avoid being snagged or injured made the going intolerably slow.  
  
Huge sections of the bulkhead and deck had been blasted out into the sea (so far, three other giant holes had been found, but on the starboard side of the ship), but in the section Sharkey and Patterson now searched, deck and bulkhead had been wrent in such a way that in this disquieting half-light, they created monstrous unmoving convoluted forms that appeared to loom up before a diver without warning. Wires that were no longer connected to any power source hung down in partially melted tatters like the slowly swaying tentacles of some strange submarinal beast. But it was not monsters of the deep that frightened them at this point though of such Sharkey and Patterson had seen more than their share. It was the fact that a wrong move made in haste or even in forethought, could damage either suit or airtank and if that happened, nightmare creatures wouldn't matter all that much.  
  
Patterson nudged the Chief slightly on the arm, a quiet uneasy edge to his voice as he spoke. "This is all too familiar," he whispered cryptically.  
  
Sharkey regarded the former farmboy, a sour expression of scarcely hidden annoyance etched on the Chief Petty Officer's face. "You've been in a wrecked submarine before?"  
  
"No..that isn't what I meant, Chief," Patterson murmured, visually scanning his confused surroundings made all the more unrecognizable by the murkiness of the water. "It's not the ship exactly...it's the condition it's in. I was watching one of those old, old classic science fiction/horror movies on the Golden TheaterMax channel a couple of weeks ago...some sort of space explorers found this derelict alien spaceship all wrecked and everything and later, they realize-"  
  
"For crying out loud, Patterson!" Sharkey snapped, at wits' end. "Just keep your mind on your duty, okay!"  
  
"Sure, Chief," Patterson said with a small shrug of his shoulders -and then, as an afterthought: "But y'know, Chief, the movie had a real catchy phrase that I'll never forget."  
  
"What!" Sharkey growled, willing to allow for this much of a concession for more work and far less superfluous chatter.  
  
Patterson cocked a slightly ghoulish grimace. "'In space, no-one can hear you scream'." Just then, Patterson stopped short as his electronic torch illuminated the area ahead of him. "Aw crap...not now..!" The access to the Control Room no longer existed -sealing it shut was a fair-sized chunk of the Voyageur's pitted hull. "Now what are we gonna do?" Patterson snapped in disgust.  
  
Sharkey swung his electronic torch in a wide arc, its brilliant beam illuminating the area immediately before him, his lips pressed into a tight thin line of angry determination until the beam struck one small area of the blocked passageway and then, another. "All right..." he said, his thick eyebrows knitting together. "See there...and over there..?" Patterson nodded slowly. "We got what looks like a ventilation shaft on the left and an inspection passage on the right. It'll be a tight squeeze, but I think we can get through if we each take one. Not a direct route to the Control Room, but better than nothin'. Whoever gets through first, signals the other -got it?"  
  
"Aye aye, Chief."  
  
"Right then..." Sharkey canted his head in the direction of the ventilation shaft. "I'll go through here."  
  
Patterson stared after Chief Sharkey as the man pulled the brittle ventilation shaft grate from the warped bulkhead, the surprisingly easy effort sending bits and pieces of charred metallic paint floating past in the water, before he disappeared into the rectangular passage. The quietly uneasy seaman immediately followed suit and pulled at the dog wheel to the inspection passage, experiencing a curious ambivalence that the hatch undogged so easily as, logically, in the face of so much structural damage around it, the hatch shouldn't have opened at all...but it had, and he had a duty to perform.  
  
The passageway stretched before him like one long, inky black subway tunnel -except that unless experiencing a power outage, a subway tunnel had at least some light to lessen the darkness. This tunnel had none. None save for the little that the electronic beacon that he had in his possession could provide -and that wasn't all that much really. Patterson slapped a hand against the metal body of the torch as the bulb inside dimmed slightly and then regained its former brilliance, coaxed finally by a second, harder blow, himself wondering whether the remnant energies of a plasma-burst bomb usually lasted this long. Patterson heaved a heavy sigh of relief as the glow steadied. He had not forgotten that his helmet had infra-red capacity, and that he didn't really need this conventional portable light, but he had to admit that its brightening beam comforted the part of him that still shrank at shadows though he had long since given up keeping an ear tuned for the shuffling gait of the Bogeyman in the dead of night.  
  
Echoes of memories best forgotten. Patterson paused, suddenly uncertain. Voyageur's designs were certainly similar to those of Seaview, but they were by no means the same and he was struck by the realization that he was no longer certain which of the hatchways ahead of him that he ought to try. Logic would have had him signal the Seaview and ask Admiral Nelson in order to avoid wasting precious time by trying one hatch and then the other, but the faint whisper of human pride... Patterson tried the hatch wheel to his left. It spun awkwardly, sending silt flying into his face, obscuring his visor, until he dashed the muck away with an impatient gesture. The wheel wobbled and then fell off with a watery thud. Patterson gave the round hatchway door an angry kick and it fell away just as easily, revealing an opening and a darkened room beyond. Patterson reached ahead, the light from his torch playing over the room beyond the opening -the Voyageur's Control Room- illuminating its pitted, blackened remains until- "Jesus Christ! Chief!"  
  
Chief Sharkey had just pulled himself out of the ventilation shaft, which had proven blocked three meters in, when he heard Patterson's terrified scream. He plunged into the inspection passageway, heading towards what he knew not, but pumping against the slowing water as fast as he could anyway until he saw Patterson in the near distance. "Pat! What is it!" But the young seaman only shook his head wildly, eyes staring, struggling to breathe. Sharkey roughly grabbed Patterson by the arms, forcing the seaman to look him in the eye.  
  
"Patterson, look at me! Breathe slow an' deep -you're hyperventilating! Dammit, man, do as I say! Slow an' deep! That's it..." Little by little, Patterson's heaving breaths slowed to ragged gasps, almost sobs. "All right now, Patterson," the Chief Petty Officer said firmly. "What happened?"  
  
For a moment, Patterson only shook his head slowly, dazedly, and then he drew a shuddering breath and whispered: "In there."  
  
"Okay...stay here." Sharkey pushed himself toward the hatchway and cautiously peered through the opening, the strobe-like beam of his electronic torch playing on the interior. "Jesus Christ! Mary Mother of God!" The Chief recoiled from the opening, the light almost falling from his shaking grasp. For a long moment, he simply sat, struggling against the bitter bile that tried to force its way up his esophagus, until he could trust himself to speak without screaming out loud or throwing up. He pressed against his throat mike, hand still trembling. "Seaview...this is Sharkey. We've...we've found Voyageur's crew."  
  
3  
  
  
The Control Room of the Seaview was consumed by a silence so complete that it was deafening. Even the constantly functioning instrumentation seemed to have been stricken mute as the crew stared at the viewing screen, each point-of-view image transmitting a vision no director of horror had yet to put to video or film. The crewman at the fathometer, his skin blanched a ghastly yellow, burst from his chair, clamping a hand over his mouth as he retched, still running, and bolted out through the hatchway. Kowalski immediately took over the deserted post though no-one, though not even the Captain, had acknowledged the incident at all. Nearly every eye was on the viewing screen and its multiple images.  
  
The Voyageur had become a tomb. In its burned-out Control Room were the many bodies of some of its crew, some still frozen at their stations, some not, each corpse a grotesque parody of the living men that they had once been; ragged, carbonized skeletons wearing gaping Death's Head grins, clothed in the tattered charred remains of their uniforms, eyeless sockets staring at nothing at all.  
  
"We've found it like this in compartments throughout the ship," came Commander Morton's voice over the bulkhead speaker, the tremor in his voice pronounced and unmistakable. "I can account for maybe...sixty-five percent of the crew by the number in the ship's official compliment. There may still be some in the compartments we couldn't get to...and some might have been lost to the sea, but..."  
  
Captain Crane grasped the mike, his knuckles straining until they had bled almost completely white and forced himself to continue to look at the screen, knowing full well that looking away would not have erased the gruesome image burned into his mind's eye. "Do you...do you have any idea what could have done this?"  
  
"We've found evidence that plasma-burst bombs were used throughout the ship, each possibly triggering the other in what might have been some sort of...sequential order." Morton paused, his on-screen image momentarily confounded by electronic snow and then clear again. "There are three more main breaches...on the starboard side...and heavy damage all along the hull within and without. Munitions and stored conventional fuels were obviously ignited as well, though I can't say whether deliberately or not. All I am sure of is that whoever set this up, planned to make sure Voyageur went down fast and for good."  
  
Admiral Nelson took the mike from the Captain's grasp. "Were you able to retrieve the captain's log and the automatic voice recorder?"  
  
"The automatic voice recorder is in questionable condition at best, but we're bringing it in. As for the captain's log...the captain's cabin no longer exists. There wasn't anything left to retrieve."  
  
"I see...secure the diving detail and get back aboard Seaview."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
Nelson clicked the mike, ending the transmission. "Lee...tell Doc to have the heavy anti- contamination units ready and functioning in no more than twenty minutes from now. We're going to need them sooner...much sooner than I had thought." Nelson caught the look of puzzlement on Lee Crane's face, the question forming on his lips and yet, never spoken aloud, and added in a low voice: "This might be more than our conventional units can handle -we can't be too careful." Crane nodded slowly, comprehending now. "After the diving party is aboard, make best speed to Antarctic Station Delta. We're going to get to the bottom of this for once and for all."  
  
  
  
  
"Enter the cubicle, please."  
  
Chip Morton stepped into the stark, sterile cubicle, eyeing his new surroundings with an acute human suspicion of the unknown, glancing back sharply as the door through which he had entered slid shut with a hiss and a quiet click, sealing him within the room. Alone.  
  
Upon arriving back at Seaview and exiting the airlock in the Missile Room, his diving team had been instructed by a team of corpsmen in obscuring medical anti-contamination gear to strip naked (Admiral's orders, they had been assured) and were handed paper-thin opaque, white medical robes like the one he wore he now, and had then been escorted through deserted corridors to this newly set-up heavy decontamination chamber. "Discard your robe in the disposal unit to your right," came Doc's voice over the hidden speaker.  
  
With no little reluctance and an even larger share of embarrassment, Morton removed the robe and dropped it into a slot which opened and then shut just as quickly, leaving the wall as seamless as it had appeared before. "Doc, is all this really necessary?"  
  
"Unfortunately, Chip, it is. We have to be absolutely sure that you are all clear," Doc's weary-sounding voice said. "The process doesn't take long and we'll have you out of there as soon as possible."  
  
"'We...'" Morton muttered sourly under his breath. "Why do doctors always say 'we' when they mean 'me'?"  
  
"Okay, Chip, I want you to stand as straight and still as possible, arms about eight inches from your sides, legs about six inches apart, and close your eyes."  
  
"Close my eyes?" Morton questioned.  
  
"And keep them closed until I say otherwise."  
  
"Aye..." Morton closed his eyes, squeezing the lids tightly until no light entered them, wondering what- All at once, the Seaview's Executive Officer heard a humming sound not unlike the collective buzz of a hive of angry bees and vaguely like the sound of one of those portable decontamination units used to cleanse contaminated uniforms or vessels. A powerful glow which he could see even through his tightly closed eyes enveloped him as the electronic hum grew until, it seemed, it would permeate his entire body, every cell tingling. Then...it stopped.  
  
"You may open your eyes now."  
  
Morton blinked, eyes watering, ears ringing slightly and looked around himself. At his feet, all around him, was a fine grey/white powder which he realized was the dried epidermal layer which had minutes ago covered his body which was now a slightly sunburnt pink. "Are you finished, Doc?"  
"Just about, Chip. There's a shower cubicle to your left and there's a sealed package inside containing another robe... When you're dressed, come out and the corpsman will take one more blood sample."  
  
  
  
  
"That's the last one."  
  
Doc accepted the vial containing the small sample of Chip Morton's blood and held it to the sterile white light mounted on the bulkhead of the Sick Bay lab, studying the container and the carmine liquid within it as if the blood might speak and reveal its deeply hidden secrets without benefit of the massive array of scientific equipment that constantly threatened to overwhelm this "horse and buggy doctor" -as he often referred to himself. Hands tightly clothed in the thinner-than-skin medical gloves, he placed a tiny drop of the Executive Officer's blood on a slide and positioned it before the lens of the hyper-sensitive micro-electronic microscope, multiple laser beams playing over the sample as the image came into focus.  
  
A long drawn-out moment passed as he peered through the binocular viewing apparatus and then finally looked up with weary satisfaction. "Commander Morton checks out just fine -all clear like everyone else. There is absolutely no evidence of foreign bacteria or contagion in his blood."  
  
Admiral Nelson rubbed his chin contemplatively. "You're sure about that?"  
  
"Quite sure," Doc replied quietly, bristling despite himself at the Admiral's uncertainty. He gestured to the now-empty experimental decontamination cubicle on the Sick Bay viewing unit as he peeled off the medical gloves. "That unit," he said with an air of ambivalence, "is certain to put me out of business."  
  
"Highly unlikely, Doc...and not in the conceivable future," Nelson disagreed, his attitude grave. He indicated the decontamination unit on the screen. "There are certain grim realities involved in experimental units such as these... For one, this decontamination unit cost five billion dollars just for this prototype -that's just one- and about a tenth of that every time we employ it."  
  
"The grim economic realities of medicine, Admiral?"  
  
"That and its scope as a curative tool is still very limited. It may be years before the higher frequencies needed to erase truly virulent and deadly viruses can be used without harming their biological hosts. For now, the unit is best used as a diagnostic tool in conjunction with the much more traditional biological and chemical medical methods as guided by an experienced hand." Nelson flicked a switch and the monitor went blank as he turned and faced Doc, an almost mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "In my opinion, most patients are likely to prefer the human touch anyhow."  
  
Doc shook his head, amused. "Don't worry, Admiral. There's no further need to salvage this medical man's wounded pride."  
  
Nelson grinned, effecting an image of innocence. "That was never my intention."  
  
"Admiral Nelson, this Crane."  
  
Both men looked up sharply as the squawk box sounded and Captain Crane's voice came out over the bulkhead-mounted speaker. Nelson grabbed the wall-mike and spoke into it, his countenance suddenly drawn with tension, the momentary warmth of humor forgotten. "This is Nelson. What is it, Lee?"  
  
"The Voyageur's automatic voice recorder was badly damaged -most of the recordings were completely unintelligible. There were a few minutes of tape that we could understand -not much use- and something towards the end of the tape that might be useful."  
  
"Might be useful?" Nelson questioned, his brow creased in a frown. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
"I'm not...I'm not certain, Admiral."  
  
Nelson reacted with surprise to the obvious embarrassment in Lee Crane's voice. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
"French was never my strong suit, sir."  
  
  
  
  
"...ainsi sort-il...avec beaucoup de regret...je suis d'accord...le sargesse de mon capitaine...ultime action...fais fonction de...commandent...S.S.Voyageur...Je m'appele capitaine de..." Words, faint...sometimes loud...tumbled through recirculated air and crackling static. "...d...corvette...Jean-Marc St. Baptiste...commandé...destruction de Voyageur...mandats des Capitaine...des Capitaine..." Confused noise and distinct sounds merged and fractured until: "...Hudson...prévinis...se répendre...de la maladie...pas de choix...Les morts!...Ils voici arri-...pas de choix...pas de choix...maintenant...Christ Jesus...Marie Mère...pardonnez moi...pardonnez-"  
  
Captain Crane leaned over the recording unit and pressed the "rewind" button, sending the tape spinning back to the beginning. He studied the young petty officer first class who sat, staring at the machine, his eyebrows knitted with intense concentration. "So," the Captain said, "do you think you can translate it, Devereaux?"  
  
Devereaux nodded slowly, uncertainly. "Canadian French is somewhat different in dialect and intonation than my native Cajun, sir, but I think I can make a rough translation."  
  
"As long as we can understand it, Devereaux, I don't care how rough it is." Crane turned to face Nelson who looked on, troubled. "What little we could understand on the recording was in English -except for this segment. It was apparently recorded by a Jean-Marc St. Baptiste who was listed as Voyageur's Lieutenant Commander. For whatever reason, he fell into speaking in French alone. Even this part is garbled as you could hear, but it's the best the communications' team could do as to cleaning it up."  
  
"All right, Lee. Go ahead."  
  
Crane nodded to the youthful petty officer who closed his eyes in concentration as the tape spun and began to play, the voice of Lieutenant Commander Jean-Marc St. Baptiste speaking softly under the translator's own voice. "...so be it...with great regret...I agree...my captain's wisdom...last..." Devereaux frowned, struggling to hear the words above the noise. "A...act...acting as...commander...S.S.N. Voyageur...I, Lieutenant Commander, Jean-Marc St. Baptiste..." At a frustrated signal from the young officer, the tape was partially rewound. "Am......am commanded...destruction of Voyageur...ordered by...Captain...Hudson...prevent...the spread...the plague...the only way..." There were sounds in the hissing, crackling background of the recording -at first, they could have been mistaken for distant explosions, but as they grew louder, the sounds were more like the noise made by the pounding of fists against metal. On the tape, the Lieutenant Commander gasped, his nerve seeming to falter before the reverberating sound heard above the crackling static of the damaged recording. "The Dead!..They're here...no choice...no choice...now..." For the longest moment, there was only the sound of static and then the voice of Lieutenant Commander St. Baptiste; quieter, more controlled this time as if the man had plumbed the last dregs from his well of courage. "Lord Jesus Christ...Mother Mary...forgive me...forgive-" Just then, there was a strange electronic whine and the building thunder of a distant explosion within the doomed ship followed by the growing thunderous roar of rushing water and the horribly distinct cacophony of human screaming, a second explosion -closer- and then...nothing...   
  
...not even static.  
  
Captain Crane stabbed the "off" button of the machine and the spinning reels stopped with a sharp jerk. For several minutes, seemingly endless minutes, utter silence reigned, not a man among them willing to believe the words they had heard or to speak out loud. Sharkey and Morton, who had entered the room as the tape had begun to play, exchanged puzzled glances, their newly acquired tans blanching pale; what they had seen after the fact made all the more horrible by the utterances of a man who had witnessed the terrifying event and had died while doing so.  
  
"We saw..." Sharkey's voice faltered, anguish etched into his face. "All those bodies...the Voyageur's crew...Why did he do it?"  
  
Nelson's shoulders sagged as he rubbed his tired, reddened eyes. "I don't know, Chief. Why a captain would order his XO to scuttle his ship and cause the death of her crew..." He sighed heavily, a grim, unavoidable decision forming in his brain. "Lee..."  
  
The Captain came to immediate attention, woken from the stupor of disbelief. "Yes, sir?"  
  
"Have we come within launching distance of Antarctic Station Delta?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Have there been any more transmissions...any more warnings?"  
  
"No, sir -the only message was the initial one."   
  
"Very well. Then set a detail to prepare the mechanical launch and get a shore party together...heavy anti-contamination/arctic-weather gear, all necessary instrumentation -radiation contamination detectors, cold protection, the works..." Lee Crane nodded solemnly and turned towards the hatchway. "And, Lee-" Crane stopped and waited for the command. "Arm yourselves with conventional side arms and medium-range plasma rifles." Nelson saw the tiny frown of puzzlement on the Captain's brow and added: "We can't be too careful at this point either."  
  
Crane inclined his head in grim agreement.  
  
  
  
  
It was a world of grey and white; flat and seemingly able to stretch to a distance without visible end...and so bitterly cold that one could not lose his footing on the flat colorless surface because the ice did not flow, nor was it covered with that nearly invisible sheen of water that made most icy surfaces slick and dangerous therefore. A frozen desert. Dead and silent save for the soft, haunting moan of the bitterly cold wind against the glacial tundra itself; a harsh draft that occasionally disturbed the ancient snows and gave the comfortless image of the sun in the nearly grey sky a dull, ghostly glow. It was as it had been since the Earth had cooled millennia ago.  
  
All at once, the ancient peace was disturbed by a sound that had no place here or anywhere in nature's plan; a high, keening sound that preceded the rumble of distant thunder. It grew, this sound, rumbling louder, sharper, causing snow drifts that had stood their ground since time immemorial to crumble to a barren white plane that was...melting -melting into a growing, widening pool. Slowly at first, and then much faster, the melting expanse stretched, becoming a great circle that bubbled, and then exploded upwards in a huge fountain of steam and water as a jet of blinding-white energy burst from beneath the surface.  
  
"The plasma cannon has cleared an opening through the ice barrier, sir. We should soon be able to surface."  
  
Admiral Nelson acknowledged Lieutenant O'Brien's observations with a small nod and returned his attention to the viewing scope as he continued to direct the Seaview's awesome power through the plasma cannon on the submersible's nose.  
  
Upon arrival beneath the complex that was Antarctic Station Delta, he and his crew had discovered two things: that the underwater submarine pen which had once been S.S.N. Voyageur's underwater docking bay had been destroyed; sealed up against the only underwater entrance to the station by what were likely the same forces that had destroyed the great grey ship herself. They had also discovered that an unusually cold spell -even for this part of the world- had created an especially thick layer of ice; a barrier between themselves and the world above; which had meant that they had had to blast through some twenty to thirty feet of ice at its thinnest, and completely solid all the way through.  
  
Nelson glanced at the power-level indicator on the instrumentation panel that monitored the flow and eddies of raw energy to the ship's plasma cannon, Seaview's most potent non-radioactive tool. The plasma cannon was a mighty instrument, no-one could question, but it was also a greedy thing that drank up every drop of energy that Seaview's reactors could afford it and thus was employed only when necessary and then, sparingly. Nelson's brow furrowed deeply as he took in the information that the indicators displayed. "All right, kill the power-feed to the cannon. Take us up to surface and increase hull temperature as directed. We don't want to end up frozen in here like a prize Christmas turkey."  
  
"Aye aye, sir!" O'Brien responded smartly, cracking a slight grin despite himself. As the power-feed was cut off, the lights in the Control Room flared to their normal intensity. "Surface! Surface! Surface!"  
  
On the frigid tundra, the huge circular patch of melted ice had begun to stiffen almost as soon as Seaview's plasma jet cut off, hardening in response to the frigid temperature which had immediately begun to reclaim it -would have reclaimed it- except that the dully shimmering film of hardening grey water cracked and then literally exploded into millions of half-frozen shards as the blunt nose of the Seaview burst from beneath the deep, dark waters below and then crashed down onto the stiffening surface with a mechanical roar as the great silver-grey submersible attained even keel...riding, amidst a thick cloud of fog-like steam that rolled off her artificially heated hull, on the slowly shifting waters her slightly glowing hull kept from freezing.  
  
Nelson picked up the mike at the periscope island and clicked it. "Nelson to Crane."  
  
"Yes, sir," came Crane's voice. "Crane speaking."  
  
"How's the shore party detail coming along?"  
  
"We're making final equipment checks right now. We should be ready to disembark in...less than ten minutes."  
  
Nelson permitted himself a brief smile of satisfaction -and more than a little pride. Preparation time had been less than his estimate by half, but then, that was Lee Crane's trademark -to do his duty quickly and efficiently; something he only demanded of his crew because he demanded twice as much from himself; an attitude that had made it possible for Nelson's former student to become a captain at an exceptionally youthful age. Whether or not it was his right, Nelson knew that what he felt in Lee Crane was a father's pride. But at that moment, ill thoughts of the grim nature of this mission intruded and Nelson felt himself compelled to add: "Very well, Lee, but be careful out there...and keep watch. The nuclear charge through Seaview's hull is keeping the ice around us liquefied for about fifty meters, but the launch may have a hard time with ice clumping around the propellers the closer you get to shore."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
Nelson disconnected the transmission, silently considering the slightly irked edge that had crept into Lee Crane's voice; the familiar note of a child bridling under a parent's oppressive, well-intentioned care.  
  
  
  
  
At first, he thought he had been stricken blind. Seaman Kowalski blinked rapidly, trying, despite his tearing eyes, to scan the brilliantly white and featureless landscape beyond Seaview's artificially-created moat, and grimaced painfully. Despite the visor that shielded his eyes from the cold sun's actual reflected light intensity, the glow was still strong enough to hurt and it took several long minutes to adjust as he fumbled about, half-blind, and boarded the motorized launch. Sight clearing, he noted with grim comfort that the rest of the shore party was experiencing similar difficulties as they, too, waited for the photo-sensitive plexi-glass of their visors to react to the snow-blinding brilliance about them and darken accordingly.  
  
The rest of the shore party clambered into the launch -Captain Crane, Seamen Riley, Tomàs, Clarke, and Petty Officer First Class Devereaux- each equally uncomfortable in the protective suits that encased them head to toe like some sort of high-tech mummies in one-piece shrouds of pale-blue synthetic fabric; purified air pumped into the suit from the air tank in the harness on their backs to avoid the air-borne contamination that they had been told that the Admiral suspected (feared?) might exist in this area; portable controls in their utility belts to keep the interior temperatures of their suits at a cool, but comfortable sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. The launch hit the weirdly colorless water with a painful jolt that sent a frigid surge up the sides of the small craft as it almost immediately powered up and forged ahead through the thin slush.  
  
Kowalski searched his utility pack and pulled out his pair of electronic field glasses, peering through them, scanning the cheerless landscape, curiously devoid of the life that usually teemed here...the penguins...the sea lions... No matter. At a touch, the mechanisms in the glasses would focus and zoom in on some non-descript area...nothing interesting catching his sight just yet... Kowalski jerked back from the image picked up by the binocular lenses and then studied it again before looking away and struggling over to where his captain sat. "Skipper, we've got a cloud ridge due north. It doesn't look too good -we might be heading towards some rough weather."  
  
Crane took the offered field glasses and peered through them intently in the direction that the seaman had pointed. "Shit..." he muttered almost inaudibly, a hard set to his jaw. He sighed heavily, handed back the binoculars, and pressed his throat mike. "Crane to Seaview. Do you read me? Over."  
  
"This is Sparks, Captain. We read you. Over."  
  
"We've gotten a visual on what may be some unstable weather coming our way. Are you getting anything?"  
  
There was a long pause, long enough that Crane began to wonder if the transmission might have been cut off somehow, but then- "It looks like you might have a pretty heavy storm system coming your way," came Sparks' even-sounding voice. "We were just about to contact you -it developed pretty suddenly. High winds...probably heavy snows and white-outs, and highly erratic polar magnetic fields. The system has already begun interfere with your camera transmissions. We're getting your audio pretty clearly, but the video-feed is shot. We can't see you."  
  
"We were told that we had an unlimited window," Crane retorted almost peevishly despite himself.  
  
"Yes, sir. I know, sir," Sparks replied, unperturbed, "but this is the Antarctic."  
  
Crane rolled his eyes in frustrated disgust, sorely tempted to tell his chief communications' officer off, but squelched the impulse with a thin smile. "All right, all right... What kind of window do we have now?"  
  
"Less than seven hours, sir."  
  
"Then I guess that'll have to do. Crane out."  
  
Kowalski glanced over his shoulder as he clambered back to his seat and shook his head with concern. "The Skipper's not in a happy mood," Riley observed as Kowalski sat down beside him.  
  
"No shit, Sherlock," Kowalski muttered as he stuffed his field glasses back into his utility pack. "Though I can't say I'm feeling much better about this mission myself."  
  
Riley studied the crewman with an amused expression. "You worried again, 'Ski?"  
  
"Yeah...and I'll tell you why." Kowalski shifted himself closer to where Riley was sitting, glanced furtively to his side and lowered his voice further, hoping that the Captain wouldn't overhear him as he had come to learn from past experiences that the man had very sharp ears -as most of the officers he had known seemed to when the need called for it. "Look...you've been on Seaview for awhile, right? And you've never known either the Admiral or the Skipper to be worrywarts -right?"  
  
Riley mulled this observation over in his mind for a moment and bobbed his head in agreement. "No...like, they're the most together dudes I know of."  
  
"Well, I've known them a lot longer than you have and I can tell that they're not telling us everything and it's worrying the both of them." Kowalski scowled slightly. "And if it worries them, it scares the hell out of me."  
  
"So why'd you volunteer for this detail, 'Ski?"  
  
A sheepish smile lit Kowalski's face. "Well..." he said with a small impish shrug, a little embarrassed at the confession on his lips. "See...there's this Corvette I've had my eye on and if I'm even going to think of putting a down payment on it, I need the danger pay."  
  
"A 'Vette! Bitchin' to the max!" Riley said with an appreciative, low whistle. "But you should do what I do when I'm stressed out."  
  
"You?" Kowalski cackled incredulously. "Stuart Riley ever stressed? Pul-eeze!"  
  
"No -really!" Riley implored, terribly earnest. "Like, whenever I'm stressed out, I just think of that time I was in Oahu, surfing, when I scoped out that major wave-"  
  
"-that tsunami last year?"  
  
"Yeah -it was so radical. I was totally one with nature -when I bounced off the lip and spun through the foam-"  
  
"For God's sake, Stu," Kowalski moaned piteously. "Speak English for once in your life!"  
  
"Hey, no problemo, dude," Riley retorted with a mischievous grin. "I can-"  
  
"Gentlemen-" Riley and Kowalski turned sharply at the sound of their captain's voice, grimacing inwardly like doomed schoolboys about to receive punishment at the hand of their stern principal. Crane observed the two crewmen's reactions, struggling with himself not to laugh aloud and more than a little relieved that his protective visor hid the grin that he could not suppress. "If either of you can tear yourselves away from your discussion on modern-day events, we are about to reach shore."  
  
"Aye aye, sir," Riley and Kowalski murmured in unison, chastened yet again for the moment.  
  
The motorized launch came to a stop at that moment with an abrupt, sharp jerk, bobbing up and down against a shore of snow and ice. One by one, the members of the shore party clambered onto the frozen ground, surprised that it actually was possible that the ice could be so cold that one could not slip on it -but it was true. Even the edges of the artificial mote were sticky not slippery and the ice beyond that was so completely frozen that the sheen of water on most icy surfaces on which one slipped and injured himself, simply didn't exist. Nowhere else in the world was ice so truly frozen. Enlisted men and officers alike eyed their strange surroundings with as much unease as they might were they astronauts disembarking from their ship onto the alien surface of another world.  
  
Crane glanced up at the increasingly turbulent sky covered in rolling thick clouds of grey and white. Seven hours, Sparks had said. He was beginning to suspect that Mother Nature was working on her schedule; the one she employed whenever her humans got cocky enough to believe that they could read her mind. Besides...classical allusions aside, the fact was that it was already beginning to snow...random bits of frozen moisture carried on a building wind that would easily freeze their flesh on contact were it not for their protective suits.  
  
"All right, men," Crane barked, calling for the shore party's collective attention, "this is how we're going to play it. This is a search and rescue mission. Station Delta is just beyond that ridge there." Crane pointed to the dark, long wall of metamorphic rock that jutted from the mainly flat icescape incongruously; too long to go around and tall enough to be more than slightly daunting. "I don't know what we're going to find, but we have to discover what happened at Delta and why...and if there are any survivors. Containment procedures will be initiated only if necessary and only on my express command -is that clear?"  
  
The shore party members stared at each other for what seemed to be an age until Clarke, one of the recruits new to Seaview, stepped forward. "Just one question, sir..."  
  
"Yes, Clarke," Crane said, studying the young crewman, "what is it?"  
  
"Well..." Clarke said uneasily. "What if we don't have time to ask you?"  
  
"Belay that!" Devereaux snapped, face reddening.  
  
"No, no -that's all right, Devereaux." Crane met the crewman's eyes. "If the situation should arise and unless you happen to find yourself suicidal, Clarke, you have my permission to defend yourself. Is that all?" The men glanced at each other; each slowly and uncertainly, wondering if one or the other should speak, and then returned their attentions to Crane -there were no more questions for now. "Very well," said the Captain, satisfied at their non-response, "we have plenty of ground to cover and not much time to do it before the snows hit -move out!"  
  
  
  
  
"Sir..."  
  
Admiral Nelson looked up from the cup of coffee in his hand as Commander Morton entered the Wardroom, a sheet of print-out paper in his hand. "Captain Crane's party is ashore and heading towards Station Delta. If the weather system holds to its present course, they should have plenty of time to get there and back."  
  
Nelson offered Seaview's XO a wry grin. "That is the key word here, Chip... If." Nelson scanned the paper, his expression tense as he took in the information. "The weather near the poles is always tricky at best."  
  
"If it should turn for the worse, the Captain will know what to do," Morton offered, sensing his admiral's concern, wishing that he could help, but not really knowing how as he had his own troubling notions with which to contend. "I've never known the weather to bother any of those Secret Forces guys."  
  
Nelson flashed Morton a sharp, puzzled look, wondering how the Executive Officer could know about that part of Lee Crane's service record when it was classified, but he let the question die on his lips. Perhaps...perhaps he would ask later. Perhaps not. "You're right about that, Chip. Definitely right."  
  
"Sir..."  
  
Chip Morton had turned to leave the Wardroom, but had stopped at the door, seemingly contending with himself over some private concern. "Is something wrong, Chip?" Nelson asked, setting his cup down on the meeting table. The Executive Officer's countenance clouded, troubled. "Did you want to talk about something?"  
  
"Sir, I..." Morton's lips pressed into a thin line of frustration. He stared at the deck and then back at the Admiral who stood wondering. "Permission to speak freely, sir."  
  
Nelson returned the guarded look evenly. "Permission granted."  
  
Morton squared his shoulders, not certain how to start, but determined that he should say what he now wished he had said long before this time. "Sir, what I saw in the Voyageur..." He exhaled heavily. "Something about what I saw , was all wrong."  
  
"Very little about what happened to Voyageur makes much sense, Chip..." Nelson offered, noting the officer's obvious anguish. "It bothers me too."  
  
"Yes, sir -the explosion, the bodies- but it's not how they died or that they died that's bothering me now."  
  
"Go on."  
  
"Sir, if there's one thing I know, it's that people act in pretty much the same way when they know that there's deadly danger coming their way -even when there's no escape, they try to escape." Morton paced a slow circle around the table before coming to a stop. "According to that tape we retrieved, it was very likely that Voyageur's crew knew what was coming when those explosions started. They probably even had time to try to escape even though they knew that it was impossible..."  
  
Nelson frowned deeply. "What are you trying to get at, Chip?"  
  
"Sir, the Voyageur's crew were frozen in their tracks by the plasma-burst bomb explosion and I'd say that not one of them was trying to escape!" Morton shook his head, struggling to collect his thoughts. "And that just doesn't happen!"  
  
"Have you...told anyone else about this?"  
  
"No-one. Not even my diving party, sir...but they know what they saw. The transmissions didn't show it as clearly as we saw it."  
  
"I see." Nelson studied the world map mounted on the bulkhead, not really looking at anything, before facing the Executive Officer who stood waiting apprehensively. "Chip, for now, I want you keep this to yourself -until the shore party returns. They may be able to shed some light on your observations...or at least corroborate them."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
Admiral Nelson watched Morton leave and then stabbed a button on the communicator on the table. "Sparks, this is Nelson."  
  
"Yes, sir!"  
  
"Open a channel to InterAllied as soon as possible."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
Nelson studied the silent desk communicator as he waited for the sought-after response. It was becoming less and less possible to ignore what he feared...and knew.  
  
  
  
  
The randomly falling flakes of snow were beginning to fall faster than they had been only minutes ago -heavier, larger, carried by a brutally cold wind that seemed to spring from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, leaving no direction in which one could turn to avoid its awful force. Not even the jutting rocky ridge offered any respite from the white gale that was not quite blinding -not yet, at least- but it was making it increasingly harder to see more than a few meters ahead. The shore party of the Seaview trudged against this wintery gale, bent low to better resist the force of it, further from home than they were near.  
  
"Sir..."  
  
"Yes...Tomàs?" Crane responded with great difficulty, as out of breath as all of his men appeared to be presently. It was as if the wind had taken on an angry life of its own, deliberately driving them back from their eventual goal for reasons known only to it. They stopped less than a meter from the ridge, chests heaving from the painful exertion. "What...what is it?"  
  
"I'm...I'm getting an energy reading..." Tomàs yelled above the deafening gale. He brushed the clotting snow from the small screen of his hand-held indication unit. "Weak...signal...maybe -maybe one hundred and fifty feet north...beyond the ridge!"  
  
"Station Delta..." Crane whispered apprehensively. Maybe there were people alive there...generators functioning -or possibly something else. "What kind of energy reading!"  
  
"Hard to tell, sir! The rock wall is interfering with the signal and the polar...fields aren't helping!" Tomàs angrily dashed away the snow that obstinately clung to the delicate instrument. "But it isn't radiation...that I can tell!" The crewman studied the daunting ridge of black rock. "I can get a better reading if I can go on ahead a ways. I'm...a good climber, sir...I...can get up that rock in three minutes flat!"  
  
Crane glanced up at the rock face uncertainly -he was a skilled free-hand mountain climber himself and the ridge with its too-smooth ice-covered surface and clumped snow looked daunting even to him...but they all had to climb it eventually and he knew it. Crane regarded the rest of his men -fit, but puffing from their exertions, his own chest feeling like it was being crushed by some sort of jagged-edged vise- and then returned his attention to the ever eager Tomàs. "All right...go ahead, but we'll be right behind you!"  
  
"Aye, sir!"  
  
Tomàs stood before the great rock as if sizing it up, and then, to the amazement of his fellow submariners, he mounted the barren wall, finding foot and hand-holds where most of the others saw none; all too soon merely a tiny blue-shrouded figure against the black rock wall, going higher despite the snow-ridden winds swirling around him. "Sir...I see...something..!" came the transmitted message over their communicators. "It's difficult...Oh my...God!"  
  
Crane was the first to react to the seaman's horrified cry, mounting the sheer rock face, grasping hidden hand-holds, propelling himself upwards with seeming cat-like ease despite the impediment of his cumbersome protective suit and unwieldy equipment. He knew that he would pay for this effort. He was ill with the flu -he couldn't deny that now- and when the adrenaline rush wore off and no longer fueled his muscles as it did now nor numbed the discomfort of illness, he wouldn't just ache, he would be in real pain. For the time at hand though, petty potential aches and pains didn't really to matter all that much to the youthful captain of the S.S.R.N. Seaview -the frozen look of sheer horror that the Captain could see twisting seaman Tomàs' young   
face, as he hoisted himself upwards, did. "Tomàs, what's wrong! What did you-"  
  
At first, Tomàs did not respond at all; he merely stared into the distance until Crane touched his shoulder and, like an automaton, seaman Tomàs thrust his electronic field glasses into his captain's hands and pointed beyond the precipice. "See," he said dully. "There."  
  
Crane studied Tomàs silently, puzzled by the usually level-headed, energetic crewman's bewildering, nearly robot-like response and then hesitantly put the powerful binoculars near to the visor before his eyes, struggling with the cold-stiffened focusing controls to sharpen the blurred image he could barely spy. At first, there wasn't much to see -just a shifting, white wall of falling frozen vapor obscuring his vision, clinging tenaciously to the lens despite his efforts to the opposite. Then, like ephemeral theater curtains, the drifting airborne glacial precipitation all but parted. Crane's eyes widened in disbelief. His mouth dropped open, but no sound came forth...not at first...and then a whisper. "Ah...Jesus..."  
  
The rest of the shore party had joined Crane and Tomàs on the peak of the rocky ridge. Crane tapped Kowalski on the shoulder, pointing into the distance wordlessly. Kowalski looked at his captain curiously and then peered through his own field glasses and jerked back from them suddenly as if they had suddenly metamorphosed into a living thing, and then peered through them again.  
  
Antarctic Station Delta was a charred, smoking ruin. The multi-level complex that had measured no less than a mile across at its narrowest point was surrounded by a blackened, scorched area, a jagged near-circle, glass-like and utterly flat, only just now being covered by the thickly falling snow. Stark-white buildings made of the latest and toughest building materials had been reduced to burned, twisted skeletons of steel and cracked concrete. Steam and smoke still rose from the decimated multi-million dollar structure. Only the outlying sections of the gutted complex still stood and those were barely recognizable as the once and former monument to international co-operation as it had been created to be.  
  
"Skipper..." Riley whispered, aghast. "What happened here! It...it looks like someone laid into it with nukes!"  
  
"I don't know, Riley," Crane confessed helplessly and forced himself to look away from the horrific ruination. "I really do not know..."  
  
"Sir! I'm still picking up energy readings!" Tomàs said, recovering from his shocked stupefaction. He blinked with amazement. "Ordinary electricity, sir. A static generator on an independent source or some kind of transformers running on power stored in batteries."  
  
"It could be on automatic or there could be someone down there..." Crane studied the glowering sky above -it was more threatening than it had been only minutes before and showed no signs of getting better in the near future. His eyes narrowed as he came to a decision; a potentially unpleasant and unavoidable one. He had his orders. "Kowalski?"  
  
"Yes, sir!" Kowalski snapped, alert.  
  
"Contact Seaview. Inform Admiral Nelson of what we've seen and that we're going in." Crane squinted, straining to see through the driving white precipitation. "We've got a job to do."  
  
  
  
  
Nelson lunged for the mike at the periscope island as soon as Sparks had piped the signal through from the absent shore party. "Kowalski, this is Nelson!" He grimaced at the squeal of high-pitched static that screamed painfully in his ear. "I can barely read you!"  
  
"Yes...sir...Station Delta...found..." Kowalski's voice was swallowed by electronic noise, disappearing and then popping back just as suddenly -but barely. "...ruins...maybe survivors..."   
  
Nelson saw Morton shale his head in poorly concealed concern as he watched the radio signal, indicated on the monitor at Sparks' station, begin to fluctuate and then break up altogether. "Kowalski!" Nelson barked into the mike. "Listen to me! Tell Captain Crane that he is to secure the mission! We have a major magnetic storm building over your area! It's powerful enough to disrupt even Seaview's transmissions! You won't have another clear window for four hours -maybe longer! You have to get back now! Did you hear me -scrub the mission!" But the only answer was static. Nelson glared at Sparks who stared back helplessly. "I don't care how many circuits you have to blow -you have to boost Seaview's transmitting range beyond regulation and break through that static!"  
  
"But, sir..." Sparks stammered. "I'll have to open up the whole console -it'll take at least three hours to make the necessary modifications!"  
  
Nelson's expression hardened, his patience now worried thin. "You have half an hour."  
  
Sparks opened his mouth to protest and then, seeing his admiral's fierce expression, prudently swallowed his initial response, and merely nodded. "Aye, sir."  
  
  
  
  
The floor beneath Lee Crane's feet was covered in twisted bits of blackened glass and incinerated plaster that crunched with a harsh, brittle sound with every echoing footfall no matter how softly he stepped. His mood was grim. The transmission he had had sent hadn't gotten through to Seaview -he was fairly certain of that- and neither had he been able to understand Seaview's response had there been one at all. The interference had been much too strong to know for certain one way or the other.  
  
He had never been witness to an actual magnetic storm before, but he had studied the phenomenon long enough to know one when he saw one. What other expression of Nature's displeasure could have had lightning bolts streak across a snow-ridden Antarctic sky? What an irony it was that this razed building should provide temporary shelter for his shore party. Shelter in a house of horrors.  
  
Crane stifled a choking cough that still managed somehow to escape his enflamed throat as he played the powerful beam of his electronic torch over the gutted remains of Antarctic Station Delta. Just as they had on the late submarine Voyageur, plasma-burst bombs, he wasn't sure yet how many, had decimated most of Station Delta; the incinerated evidence didn't lie. Neither did the silent charred remains of the dead that his team had discovered; frozen in an instant of time by an inescapable burst of destructive energy. At least, this time, the crew of the Seaview had been spared the horrible sight that his team had had no choice but to see. Carbonized bodies of nameless people that fell to ash at a touch...less than dust. Individually...and sometimes in groups.   
  
Some of them were piled together as if they had sought each other's comfort in their final agonies or...what? Something else? Something that whispered at the back of his mind and yet, something that he could not, no, would not accept.  
  
Crane shook his head with a very uneasy, very nervous laugh. No...just the shadows of imagination whipped up by horrors that the human mind found too terrible to accept. Crane passed by a partially opened door, quickly looked in, and turned away sadly. He wondered almost idly whether any of the victims had even tried to escape. Or had it all happened so fast that no-one had been aware of death's approach? He just didn't know.  
  
Just then, there was a sharp, loud crack that broke the stillness and echoed against the pitted walls of the decimated complex. Conditioned by years of naval Secret Forces training, Crane immediately reached for the cold-tempered semi-automatic in the holster strapped against his side before he consciously thought to do it, and then stopped, his gloved hand just a hair's breadth from the gun's black metal butt, and drew a shaky breath of relief, his shoulders slumping slightly with the release of tension. Seaman Kowalski emerged fully from the shadows until his captain could see his face. "Have you found anything yet, 'Ski?"   
  
Kowalski hesitated a moment before speaking, glanced uncertainly at his captain who was drawing his hand away from his uncovered service weapon with obviously false nonchalance, and realized that he, too, had begun to reach for his own service pistol, fingers a mere centimeter from resting on it. He let the hand drop limply to his side. "Not much, sir," he said, gesturing with a helpless hunch of his shoulders. "More of the same...rooms destroyed...equipment likewise...and the people -they're in the same condition as on Voyageur...some worse, but I haven't come upon a single survivor. Not one." A chill of revulsion traveled down the crewman's spine...revulsion and fear. It was the subconscious unease of primitive man when he walked upon the resting place of the dead in the deep of night. Antarctic Station Delta had become a great cemetery and though neither of the present members of Seaview's crew would admit it, neither of them could deny to themselves that every tiny creak of settling timbers made them glance to one side or the other, seeking things that belonged only to shadow.  
  
"There was one thing though," Kowalski said, suddenly struck by memory. He anxiously fished through his utility pack and carefully removed the object of his search, and handed Crane the crumpled bit of charred paper. "I don't know if it means anything, but..."  
  
Crane accepted the heavily creased, tattered scrap of paper. It was, or had been, part of a computer print-out sheet, the paper scorched and browned, its edges falling to the floor in tiny charred flakes. Crane brought the tattered sheet closer to his eyes, squinting at the print that proved to be difficult to decipher because of the damage. "'Dr. Isaiah Perlman -positive...Dr. Ellen Rhys-Jones -positive...Dr. Pavel Kirschev -positive...Ensign David McDonald -positive...Corpsman Lt. Junior Grade Mathieu Thibideau -negative. V2 is showing a geometric pattern of infection, however, further testing may prove fruitful if we can locate the unique immunity factor in-'"   
  
The Captain's voice trailed off as the tantalizing bit of information came to an end -the rest of the scientific missive too burned to read. He glared at the scrap of paper that gave only enough of a clue to intrigue, but little more. "Some kind of test results. Medical, I'd say. The rest of the sheet is...completely illegible."  
  
"Then...there was germ testing, sir? Like the Admiral said?" Kowalski asked, voice faltering despite himself, as a new apprehension took hold of him as if he had just remembered the awful possible reason for their being here in the first place.  
  
"Maybe," Crane said, striving to force the tone of his voice to remain non-committal, "but even if there was, fire is supposed to be the great purifier, isn't it? I'd imagine the explosion was probably as good as any of our decontamination units."  
  
Kowalski regarded his captain uncertainly, picking up on the hint of incertitude in the man's voice. "You're...you're sure of that, sir?"  
  
For a long moment, Crane met the crewman's eyes and the shook his head as he looked around himself at all the terrible devastation and whispered: "No."  
  
Kowalski studied his captain and then sighed with weary resignation. "Aye, sir."  
  
"Sir!"  
  
Crane and Kowalski turned sharply in the direction of the new voice as seaman Stu Riley bounded from behind the blind corner of a debris-cluttered corridor. His cheeks were flushed and his chest heaving as he came to an abrupt stop, slid on some charred refuse underfoot, and landed flat on his ass. Struggling not to laugh aloud more because of nerves than amusement, Crane and Kowalski quickly reached down and grasped the hapless crewman by the hands and helped him to his unsteady feet. "Sir!" Riley gasped, still slightly out of breath. "Clarke and I...we found it!"  
  
"Easy, Riley," Crane cautioned. "Found what!"  
  
"The source...of the energy reading...some kind of generator..."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me over your communicator?"  
  
"Bogus. There was, like, no-" Riley caught sight of Kowalski's silently mouthed warning and started again. "The generator is apparently powered by a transformer...a huge battery, sir. It seems to be creating a field of interference. We couldn't get through it -and we tried. The blast barely touched it at all -it just blew a hole in the shielding panel...and there's something else. We found a whole wing of the complex still standing...and there's this - this room."  
  
"Room?" Crane questioned.  
  
"Yes, sir. Or a huge safe -it's got a random combination lock generator on it. The lock was protected by a metal panel...Devereaux's trying to crack the combination now."  
  
"All right then..." Crane said, pausing for a moment to digest all this new information. "Lead us to it."  
  
Crane and Kowalski followed Riley as he carefully led them through an awkward maze-like path carved through solid matter by a powerful blast of heat and destructive force; through partially collapsed corridors and past walls that had been violently breached, some barely standing, others run through by steel girders twisted at odd angles or laying against massive piles of rubble. "Watch it!" Crane suddenly felt himself grabbed by the arm and wrenched to one side in one violent motion that nearly pulled him off his feet...but his immediate indignation was quickly forgotten as the awkwardly-shaped tunnel just ahead resounded with deafening thunder as a huge section of the cracked ceiling suddenly buckled under some uneven pressure and opened up, sending a huge avalanche of synthetic concrete, wire, and misshapen metal struts tumbling to the already littered floor. When the roaring cacophony died down, echoing and then fading, a fog of dust and dirt hung heavily in the cold air. As the haze lessened, Crane glanced at the buried spot where he had been heading and then regarded seaman Riley, offering a small half-grin of slightly unnerved gratitude and relief. "Thank you."  
  
"No prob- er, aye, sir!" Riley responded brightly. "This way!"  
  
Devereaux, Clarke, and Tomàs had just peeked their heads in the lighted end of the tunnel, about to enter the damaged corridor when Crane, Kowalski, and Riley emerged from it, dusty and more than slightly shaken.  
  
"We heard the corridor go!" Devereaux said anxiously. "Are you all right!"  
  
"A bit startled, but otherwise unharmed," Crane responded, apparently unaffected by his nearly deadly experience. He studied his men's faces as a look of great relief seemed to erase most of the worry in their expressions. It wasn't that the experience hadn't affected him really -would that it had been so- but, as he reminded himself, the position of command denied him the right to show it as long as his men's confidence depended on his own. Uncertainty of the facts was more easily shown than uncertainty of one's ability to lead.  
  
Crane studied his new surroundings. The passageway had led them to a wide rotunda-like extension about fifty feet high and more than twice that across, and though the ceiling and walls were cracked and very badly scorched, they still held. Crane ran his gloved hand across the curiously textured surface of the walls, feeling the odd, impossibly even grain through the synthetic fabric of his uniform's protective gloves. It was as if the walls had been woven like cloth rather than constructed with bulk materials like mortar, plastics, and bricks. "Hard...maybe some sort of metal, but if it is metal, it isn't like any I've ever seen..."  
  
"Yes, sir," Tomàs said, running his clothed hand across the surface. He stared at the grey residue left on the fingers of his gloves and brushed it away. "It's not steel or titanium, nor is it any alloy I know. It might be some experimental synthetic metal -it definitely has some unusually potent flame-retardant properties otherwise this room would be in the same shape as the others...and that's not all, sir. Look!"  
  
The crewman gestured excitedly over to where Petty Officer Devereaux had taken up the task on which he had been working before the incident in the tunnel had distracted them. Devereaux acknowledged his captain's presence with a nod as he continued his work. "What's this, Louis?" Crane asked, peering over the Petty Officer's shoulder.  
  
"It's some kind of computer combination lock with one hell of a random-combination generator." The young officer shook his head with frustration as he moved aside to let the Captain get a better look at the device mounted against the wall beside what appeared to be a huge towering door. "There was some kind of shielding over the lock. It took awhile, but I got through that using my plasma rifle, but this-" He gestured to the rows of buttons on the lighted panel. "If I could be sure that using the plasma rifle on it wouldn't just cause the vault to permanently fuse shut, I would do it, but I don't."  
  
"Can you crack the combination?" Crane asked quietly. "It could be important."  
  
"I know, sir, and with Seaview's computers, I could initiate a random sequence program that would probably have the lock open in...minutes, but without one..." The young officer drew a heavy breath. "Sir, the potential combination would be comprised of any of the digits of zero to nine and the characters of "a" to "z", including the decimal point here." Devereaux spread his hands in frustration. "Unless I got very lucky, it could take days -and I was a very good hacker in my day."  
  
"Twelve spaces...a potential combination from ten digits, twenty-six letters, and a decimal point...if we could cut off the power source perhaps..." Crane straightened up and looked at Riley who waited patiently. "You said that you'd found some kind of generator?"  
  
"Yes, sir! This way!" Crane followed the crewman down a short passageway, and frowned as he gradually became aware of a low-frequency electronic whine that reverberated against his eardrums like some sort of bad tinnitus condition. He followed the sound with a turn of his head.  
  
The source of the powerful irritating hum, standing deeply within a huge recess in a wall in almost direct view of the enormous vault, was a towering structure of scorched and scarred metal and wire which, despite the cosmetic marring, stood incongruously untouched amidst such extensive ruination, the constant sound emanating from it growing louder the nearer one came to it. In truth, the only apparent damage to what appeared to be some kind of back-up battery unit was the gaping, jagged hole in the transparent insulation shield that surrounded the mechanism.  
  
"Have you tried to deactivate it?" Crane asked, wincing despite himself at the hum which seemed to pierce his ears like some sort of sonic drill.  
  
"No, sir...and because we don't dare," Riley said with a grimace and then, seeing his captain's questioning stare, he canted his head in the direction of one of the other crewmen and said: "Clarke...you show the Skipper."  
  
Clarke nodded and reached down to the rubble-covered floor and picked up a thick palm-sized chunk of plaster. He hefted the fragment and, effecting a big league baseball pitcher's stance, wound up and hurled the chunk towards the huge electrical unit. The small missile hit a panel on the generator and disappeared with a blinding, blue burst of energy. "The explosion did some damage, sir. The null-energy insulation shield is gone and somehow the live electricity is being fed directly into the outer casing. One touch of that and -poof! We found that out when a loose piece of plaster fell from the ceiling and hit the generator."  
  
Crane studied the great, resonating unit a moment longer and shook his head wearily. All that power and not a working furnace to be seen, he thought dryly. "So," he said, "until that battery runs down, that thing might as well be a death sentence to anyone getting too close."  
  
"Yes, sir," Devereaux replied wearily himself, drawing up to his captain's side. "It would seem that way...at least, unless and until we can get some of the heavy-duty equipment from the Seaview."  
  
"That may be for the best-" Crane stopped mid-sentence, his train of thought interrupted by a piercing sound; an unexpected, sharp noise not unlike the shrill intermittent beeping of an electronic timer. Crane glanced sharply to his side and saw Tomàs hunched over a small hand-held electronic device that seemed to be the source of the sharp pulsing sound, his young countenance twisted into a frown. "What is it, Tomàs?"  
  
Tomàs pulled his mouth into a small grimace. "I'm not sure, sir."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I'm getting some kind of reading on this motion detector...or, at least, I think I am. This generator is putting out a lot of interference -it may be causing some kind of false readings -but according to this-" Tomàs gave the pulsing unit a small sharp slap, annoyed. Nothing changed. "According to this, we've got company."  
  
"Rats -right?" Kowalski asked almost nervously. "They had test animals in this place, didn't they? Vermin can take any kind of weather."  
  
"No..." Tomàs said through tightened lips. "Singular reading -can't get a clear idea from which direction...too much mass for a small animal...most likely human -or something like it."  
  
"Survivors...here?" Kowalski protested, disbelieving still, as he stared uneasily around him. "That isn't possible. Nothing human could have survived those bombs."  
  
"I don't know about that, 'Ski..." Riley murmured, his eyes wide, straining to hear beyond the hum of constantly opening and closing circuits within the generator. "That hurricane that hit the Santa Monica area three years ago wiped out a whole city block...houses, everything -except this budgie...in a cage. Birds, rats or humans -it can happen."  
  
"Thank you, Riley. We'll all keep that in mind," Crane said tersely, his hand now on the butt of his service pistol. The word containment rang through his brain and he shook his head in frustration -it didn't have to be that way. Not yet. "Fan out. If we have a survivor, he or she may not be in the most reasonable frame of mind after all this time alone -and we still have to accept the possibility that there may have been some kind of viral contamination involved here -so, be careful."  
  
There was a general murmur of agreement as the shore party spread out, more cautiously than they had before, creaks and settling beams somehow far more ominous than they had been a mere few minutes ago. Crane turned sharply at a loud, haunting moan and drew a shaky breath as he realized that it was only the sound of wind howling through a small hole in the ceiling above him. Funny, he mused almost idly, it had stopped snowing- "Jesus -God!" Crane unfastened his semi-automatic -that hadn't been the wind!  
  
Reacting on instinct alone, Crane tore down through the wrecked corridor through which he had just come, back into the rotunda-like room in which he had been just moments before. There, he stopped, frozen despite himself like a bird facing a cobra, at the sight before him. Tomàs was face-down on the litter-strewn floor, his hand-held equipment had been torn from his grasp and flung out before him, far from his reach, as someone...no, much more like  
something straddled his back. The ragged, beast-like human-like thing looked up and locked eyes with the Captain of the Seaview. It was a twisted monstrous thing, clothed in scorched rags, its hair wild and matted, its grossly disproportionate mouth dripping with blood. Horrified, Crane glanced down at the unmoving form of the crewman, still alive, claw-like tears in the anti-contamination suit, livid gouges beneath the cloth...a mouth dripping with Tomàs' blood!  
  
The service pistol was in Crane's hand before he was consciously aware of it. The gun discharged before he realized that he had pulled the trigger. The man-thing reeled with the impact of the bullet, falling away from the prostrate crewman, but even as the Captain took a single step forward, the beast-like man got up, a lurching lumbering thing, eyes blazing red, and its gnashing teeth... The Captain fired -once, again- as the thing launched itself at him, the force of its contact throwing him bodily to the floor, his gun flying from his hand -out of reach.  
  
As an officer in the ParaNavy, trained by the Secret Forces, Lee Crane was trained to kill with his bare hands and fight to a win in hand-to-hand combat almost any man twice his size, but the strength of this thing... In seconds, Crane was all but pinned to the floor. He heard a ripping sound somewhere in the vague distance of his senses and felt a tearing pain in his shoulder, a foul odor filling his nostrils as he struggled with this maddened thing -the stench of old death.  
  
All at once, the raging creature was pulled away from the fallen captain. Kowalski, though not as skilled in hand-to-hand combat, was very nearly as powerful a fighter as Crane, and yet, he was literally tossed aside by the raging, howling thing. Riley, Clarke, and Devereaux struggled desperately, futiley as he -it- knocked them to the rubble-covered floor without effort, bellowing in mindless rage...and somewhere in the loud unintelligible, garbled roaring could be heard a word formed from a voice that was only barely human: "Mine!..Mine!..MINE!" Again and again, that word was repeated; louder and again, as the vaguely human man-thing lurched once more towards the fallen, unconscious Tomàs.  
  
"Get the fuck away from him, you bastard!" Blood dripping from the gaping wound in his shoulder, Crane pulled the plasma rifle from the sheath on his back, even as the beast-like creature spun to meet his eyes -and fired. The thing reeled and started toward Crane again. Eyes cold and narrow, Crane fired again, increasing the wattage of the blast. The thing recoiled, but started toward him -slower this time, but still coming forward. Crane heard the warning beacon on the plasma rifle begin to sound as he pushed the energy control up to maximum -and fired. A jet of cold-white plasma spewed from the maw of the weapon, hitting the rampaging creature fully in the chest, sending it hurtling through the now steaming air. There was a blinding burst of electric flame as the bestial man hit the live generator and a scream that no human mouth had ever made as its image seemed to go negative, and the smell of burned flesh filled the air, as the few lights that ran off the energy in the generator dimmed and went black.  
  
When the paroxysm of electric sparks and white flame died down, the carbonized body of the shore party's nameless attacker remained impaled on the sparking transformer, spread-eagle, spasming several times and then crumpled to the scorched floor, a pile of blackened bones and foul, smoking ash.  
  
For a moment, there was no sound...no movement. With an almost mindlessly mechanical motion, Crane resheathed his plasma rifle, the metallic-black muzzle now steaming, and hearing crewman Tomàs' muffled moan, signaled to Kowalski and said: "Break out your med-kit and check him out."  
  
Kowalski drew his hand away from the scratches deep within his left arm -they were sore, but there was more pain than blood, and he was able to nod numbly as he grasped the box. "Aye, sir."  
  
"Sir..." Crane turned in Riley's direction as the crewman approached him. "Your shoulder, sir...you're hurt too."  
  
As if just remembering the attack on his person, Crane covered the throbbing wound in his shoulder with his hand and then brought the hand away and stared dully at the steaming slick of bright red blood on the palm of his glove -his own blood; the sight of it stirring some vague, dull fear that he could not quite place. "The blood..."  
  
Riley had another of their med-kits in his hand and gestured almost diffidently. "Sir...if you'll let me, I can take care of it."  
  
"No." Crane blinked, mentally shaking off the emotional stupor that had momentarily dulled his senses...his thoughts. "I'm all right. Just-" Crane's eyes narrowed as the last of the strange emotional dullness fled, replaced by a realization. "Shit! Shit twice!.." he cursed under his breath and then, dreadfilled and fully coming back to himself : "Everyone -check out your suits! Look for rips, tears, anything -no matter how small!"  
  
No... Oh God... Not that... Jesus, it can't be... The soft murmur of dismay echoed through-out the shore party, confirming Crane's worst and deepest fears. It had happened -minor damage or worse- from a mere scratch to a tear that left a ragged flap of fabric hanging loosely down- each anti-contamination suit had been breached, their protective capacities severely compromised. If there was a disease here... Crane studied the haunted expressions of his men -they had a right to be afraid. He was suddenly very afraid too. "All right...use the sealant in your utility kits and patch up your suits. I don't know if we are facing infection here, but I do know that there's no need to die from hypothermia if we can help it -and we can." The men hesitated and Crane's tone of voice grew necessarily sharp. "On the double!"  
  
Crane sighed with grim satisfaction as his men fell to their tasks with desperate vigor, glad to be occupied for the time with other things than time to worry about whether some madman had infected them with some dreaded known or unknown disease. Crane knelt beside Kowalski who was efficiently binding the wounded shoulder and arm of Tomàs who had regained consciousness and was now sitting up, looking around dazedly. "How is it, 'Ski?"  
  
"A bite and some scratches...neither dangerously deep. I've cleaned them up the best I can..." Kowalski reported in an official sort of monotone. "But I think they'll need stitches as soon as we...as soon as we get back on board Seaview."  
  
"Uh huh..." Crane murmured flatly. "Tomàs..?"  
  
Tomàs shrugged wearily in pain. "I didn't see or hear him coming until he was almost on top of me, sir." He shook his aching head. "All I know is that I can usually whip any guy my size -no problem, but this guy... It was like trying to wrestle with an overgrown pitbull, and...and he bit me..." Tomàs drew a shaking breath. "Sir, who was he? Why did he-" The crewman grasped his bandaged arm, grimacing. "Why did he do what he did? We...we're here to help..."  
  
"I don't know, Roberto," Crane said, using the familiar. "Maybe being alone for all this time, among all these dead bodies and ruination, destroyed the man's sanity...whoever he was." Crane saw Tomàs' face whiten, sickly and pale, as he uttered a groan between clenched teeth. "'Ski, give him something for the pain."  
  
"It's okay, sir, I don't-"  
  
Crane silenced Tomàs' feeble protest with a glare of warning. "Do as you're told and take it."  
  
"Aye, sir," Tomàs replied meekly, apparently relieved that he had been released from some obligatory act of military-bred stoicism. He flexed his arm, bunching and releasing a fist as Kowalski administered the injection. Tomàs winced and shot his fellow crewman a dirty look as Kowalski removed the hypodermic and sealed it in a disposal container.  
  
Crane turned aside, studying his grim surroundings and suppressed a shudder, exhaling heavily, his breath misting his visor. An errant snowflake landed on his mask and he flicked it aside in annoyance as he visually followed the snowflake's trail to its source -a jagged hole in the ravaged ceiling. The sky was a dark grey, very little snow, but it was getting colder. Pathetic though it had been, the generator had provided some small measure of heat in this area simply by being there, and now, the source of that meager comfort was gone just when they needed it -a charred mass of twisted metal, still sparking occasionally due to the static electricity still built up in its metallic mass. But no heat. And worse, the long period of night that came to this part of the world at this time of the year would soon be upon them, bringing with it, a bitter twilight's deadly cold that they would not survive in their compromised suits.  
  
Crane gingerly touched the patched area on the shoulder of his protective suit. Sore...and dangerous if they had been infected. Crane winced, drawing in a sharp breath. The thought that the fire and explosion had purged the contagion, was a comforting one, but not so much so since the attack. The explosion hadn't touched every part of the complex...and it certainly hadn't taken that poor, maddened soul who had attacked his shore party. God...Seaview had to be warned -even if it turned out to be a false alarm. "Clarke?"  
  
"Yes, sir?" responded the young seaman nervously.  
  
"Try to contact the Seaview -the polar magnetic fields might be stable enough right now to get a message thr-" Crane fell silent as, without warning, the great rotunda was shaken by a building, rumbling sound like the enormous unearthly groan of an unseen giant, echoing from every wall at one time.  
"Sir!" Kowalski pointed to the huge sealed vault. The greying layer of frost fell from the seemingly impregnable vault as the towering metal door began to move; seams becoming pronounced, as the door slowly crept forward. Minutes passed and still the portal continued to uncouple from the wall of alien alloy, thicker than any barrier the men of the Seaview had ever known -until now. Then it stopped. Abruptly. Completely. And all was silent again. Kowalski regarded his captain, questioning. "Interruption of the electrical current when that guy hit the generator?"  
  
"I would say so..." Crane suspiciously eyed the narrow opening between the door and the wall. Whatever was beyond the opening, a room no doubt, was warmer than their present surroundings -condensation was rolling from the thin gap like an undulating carpet of fog. "Clarke?"  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"Continue trying to contact Seaview. Inform me as soon as you've gotten through."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
"Kowalski, Riley, Devereaux..!" The three crew members came to attention. Crane jerked a thumb in the direction of the narrow opening. "This way." A moment of hesitation passed between the crew members before they fell in step behind their captain, each looking from side to side as if expecting the Bogeyman to lunge out from the shadows. Instead of total darkness, though, there was light -a stark, sterile white light from bar-shaped halogen lamps mounted on the strangely untouched, undamaged ceiling.  
  
In fact, to the men's complete disbelief, as the Captain directed them to split up and go ahead, the entire chamber as far as they could see had been left untouched by the blasts that had decimated the rest of the scientific complex with such apparent ease. Crane drew a hand against the painfully white wall. The texture was the same as the odd alloy that comprised the outer barrier. Definitely not a metal on the atomic charts -an unknown metal. The bright lights had to have been running off an independent internal source as yet unseen. There also had to have been an air revitalization unit functioning within -the tassel of fabric hanging from a vent flapped gently and the flora samples on the shelves still prospered. Crane tapped the wall thermometer with a finger, but the reading was the same as the reading on his portable detection gear -this room was being maintained at an even thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit.  
  
This was a storage room. Crane gingerly picked up a sealed container, stared at the label for a moment, eyes widening, and almost timidly replaced the container onto the shelf where it had been sitting before his shore party's arrival. He signaled to Kowalski who was standing not further than an arm's length away. "'Ski," he said, drawing the seaman aside, "most of the containers -at least, the ones I've examined thus far- contain highly volatile chemicals...acids and explosive compounds...some poisons and contaminants as well." Kowalski cast a sharp, uneasy look in the direction of the rows upon rows of shelves, each level on each shelf having on it some kind of tightly sealed canister or container; each receptacle now equally as foreboding as the one beside it. Crane regarded the seaman's mute response. "Tell Devereaux I want the men to make a special effort to watch their step around these shelves from now on -very carefully. Some of them contain biological cultures...maybe germ samples."   
  
"Aye, sir..." Kowalski replied with a slight nod, paling, but just as he was about to do as he was bidden, both captain and seaman heard the padded, muffled thunder of running feet and Stu Riley -cheeks flushed with the exertion of running while wearing such unwieldy gear, came to an abrupt stop before Crane. "Sir!" he gasped, chest heaving. "You won't believe this, but - but the petty officer and I -we found someone in this place!"  
  
"Found-" Crane looked sharply in the direction of the shelves and then storage crates stacked against the walls. "What -you discovered a body?"  
  
"No, sir!" the flustered seaman gasped, struggling to gather his thoughts, shaking his head with his own disbelief, wondering how he could possibly make his commanding officer believe when he could scarcely accept the evidence of his own senses -especially when he was well aware that the general consensus aboard Seaview was that seaman Stu Riley's mind floated with the fishes most of the time. Riley took a deep, steeling breath. "He - he's a live dude -like, totally zoned out, but kicking! I, er, I mean...I don't know who he is or how he got here, but the joker's alive!"  
  
"All right!" Crane said sharply. "Lead the way!"  
  
Crane and Kowalski again followed Riley, this time through the winding maze of storage shelves, realizing as they went that this chamber was far larger than they might have suspected. There was a glacier-like rock formation against which Antarctic Station Delta had been built and this lengthy room had most certainly been built directly into it at some point. After several meters, the rows of shelves thinned out until they only lined the walls of the part of the room which was their final destination.  
  
At the farmost end of the room, Devereaux was hunched over what at first glance appeared to be a large bundle of rags or clothes piled in one corner of the farmost wall. As Crane and party entered this once hidden inner chamber, Devereaux looked up and moved aside from the large bundle partly, revealing that the pile of "rags" was, in fact, a man; a shivering, pathetic creature that mindlessly curled up closer to the supposed safety of the corner as they approached. He was young, but how young was almost impossible to tell -his situation had dealt harshly with him. He was Caucasian, but his skin had taken on a grey, almost ashen pallor; his ginger hair, short-cropped in the manner common to servicemen, was a wild tangle, his drawn, haggard face unshaven, but not yet bearded; and his pale grey eyes stared, rarely blinking, at nothing.  
  
"I'm no corpsman, but I think he's suffering from deep emotional shock," Devereaux said flatly, drawing on what first-aid he knew. "I haven't been able to get a word out of him yet...but I can tell you that he's a submariner...not one of ours, but definitely a submariner." The Petty Officer reached toward the man and pulled aside some of the emergency blankets with which the man had apparently covered himself to reveal a navy-blue uniform that had seen better days...the uniform of a member of the Navy of the Federation of Canada. "And look at this." Devereaux gestured to the glimmering pin above the man's left breast pocket.  
  
Crane leaned nearer and touched the gold naval decoration. "A gold dolphin...he's a submariner all right -and an officer." He checked the man's uniform more closely. "Lieutenant Junior Grade..." he murmured, reminding himself of the proper rank designation since Canada had adopted the American system not two years ago. "And a member of the medical corps." Crane sighed heavily. "One of the Voyageur's men...but what is he doing here?"  
  
"Sir! This should help." Kowalski handed Crane a beaten leather wallet. "I just found it stuffed behind a box of emergency rations. It looks like it was thrown together from the Voyageur's stores -there was all kinds of stuff in there; bottles of Canada Dry, Maple Leaf canned ham, Kraft peanut butter -all Canadian stuff. Looks mostly untouched, but it might have been how he stayed alive."  
  
"Maybe...but this should tell us who he is, I hope..." Crane muttered as he opened the wallet and studied its contents. "Thibideau, Lieutenant Jr. Grade Mathieu Marcel..." He frowned with recognition at the name, remembering the charred list in his utility pack. "A corpsman on the S.S.N. Voyageur out of New Brunswick's Acadian port..." He looked at the I.D. picture in the wallet's see-through pouch; at the bright-eyed, fresh faced young officer on the static image...and then at how he looked now -a mere ghost of his former self. "Acadian New Brunswick... Devereaux, try again."  
  
Devereaux sighed with resignation and, with his gloved hands forced the trembling young corpsman to look at him. "Do you speak English?" No response but a blank stare. Devereaux frowned in concentration, trying to sort out the Cajun idioms and phrases from the pure standard French. "Est-ce que vous parlez français?" There was no verbal response, but though he continued to stare, the corpsman's stare was not quite as blank. Devereaux glanced at Crane who nodded for him to continue. "Comment vous appelez-vous?"  
  
"Thibideau..."  
  
There was a silent release of tension. Now, perhaps, they would get some information; some idea of what had really happened to this place...and its people. "Depuis quand êtes-vous ici?"  
  
Thibideau's mouth worked mutely, his expression one of profound confusion. "Je...je ne comprend pas...je ne..."  
  
Devereaux shook his head ruefully. "He's out of it again -total brain lock."  
  
"All right..." Crane said, his expression grim. "I want you to rig up some kind of insulated litter." He grimaced as he saw the whiteness of Thibideau's fingers -the tell-tale sign of the beginnings of frost-bite. He didn't know how extensive or severe it was elsewhere on the man's person. "We're going to have to move out soon and he's in no condition to walk."  
  
Devereaux bobbed his head in agreement. "Aye, sir!"  
  
"Sir! We've got a signal through to Seaview!" Crane felt a tentative relief wash over him as seaman Clarke handed him the hand-held communications' device. Crane noted that the unit had been modified to produce greater power and range than its original design specifications -Clarke's forté. He would make a fine communications' officer some day. "Crane to Seaview. This is Crane to Seaview! Do you read me -over!"  
  
  
  
  
On board the Seaview, in the Control Room, it was a scene of ill-controlled jubilation as Captain Crane's voice filtered over the squawk box. Admiral Nelson grabbed the mike at the periscope island, his face breaking into a great smile of relief. "Lee!.. This is Nelson! Are all of you all right!"  
  
"No...severe injuries, sir," came Lee crane's weary-sounding voice over the speaker, "but we do have a problem."  
  
The jubilation fell still as Nelson stared at the mike in his hand, his countenance suddenly grim, his jaw working as he tried to decide what to do or say next. Crane's tone of voice had told him little except that there was cause for concern. "Well, spit it out, Lee! What's the problem?"  
  
"We encountered two survivors, sir. One of them was completely mad. He attacked us, causing the compromising of the integrity of our environmental suits. We've patched them up, but highest level precautions will have to be taken when we come on board Seaview. We have no idea if we have a situation of infection."  
  
"I...see," Nelson murmured, suddenly weary. "Were you able to secure him?" There was silence -no response on the other end of the signal. "Lee..?"  
  
"The subject was unavoidably 'contained', sir," Crane said in a muted voice as if ashamed. "There was no other option... I'll explain further when we get aboard."  
  
"All right, Lee..." Nelson said somberly. "And the other?"  
  
"Deep emotional shock, initial stages of frost-bite, and border-line malnutrition. He's a Canadian -a corpsman from the Voyageur."  
  
"Very well, Lee. Come back in. Your window is still pretty shaky."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
  
  
  
Crane stared at the silent communicator before stuffing it in his emergency kit and looked up to study his sterile surroundings. Canisters, shelves, and boxes... When InterAllied sent a pure research team over here, they would have a field day with what they would find. Kowalski, Riley, and Devereaux were carrying the helpless corpsman of the Voyageur out to a make-shift litter they had created out of blankets and gear from their emergency stores.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Crane turned and regarded the seaman wearily. "Yes, Clarke?"  
  
The crewman hefted an old burlap satchel. "I found this -the corpsman was lying on it. There are a load of papers and some journals inside -should we take it along?"  
  
"Yes...just wait in the rotunda with the others. I'll be along shortly." Crane waited until the crewman had left before he sighed aloud and leaned against a wall, an oppressive tiredness that bordered on depression engulfing him in an inescapable wave. What-the-Hell had he and his crew gotten into this time? He was suddenly uncertain whether he actually really wanted to know after all. The only thing he felt like doing right now was- Crane grimaced and clutched at his stomach as a dizzying wave of nausea swept over him and passed. He shook his head vigorously to shake off the fleeting sensation whose presence somehow did not surprise him. He was a captain, but ultimately, he was only an ordinary man...and the sights that this man had seen sickened him to his very soul.  
  
A gasp escaped Crane's mouth as the nausea suddenly returned in force and he had to clench his teeth or... Heedless of the possible danger, realizing the uselessness of the precautions now that his suit had already been compromised, Crane struggled with the catches on his face mask, hastily unlatched his visor, flipped it open...  
...and threw up.  
  
"Sir..?"  
  
"Yes?" Crane responded shakily at the sound of Kowalski's voice, not daring to look behind him. "What is it?"  
  
"We're ready to go."  
  
"I'll be with you shortly."  
  
Kowalski nodded slowly. "Aye, sir." He hesitated. "Sir..?"  
  
"What?"  
  
Kowalski shook his head. "No...nothing, sir. We'll be waiting for you." With that, he left the room.  
  
Crane leaned against the wall a moment longer until the nausea passed. There was no way that Kowalski could not have known what he was doing -he knew that- but the crewman had allowed him his pride. Perhaps what Nelson had said had been right when he had said those years ago that a loyal crew was often more forgiving of its captain's weaknesses than the captain himself. No. Not just perhaps.   
Definitely.  
  
Crane straightened up, taking a deep breath that cleared his head, and giving himself a tidying once-over, left the storage room and joined his men. Devereaux and Clarke were lifting up the litter. Kowalski was attending the wounded Tomàs who continued to protest audibly. Crane hefted the satchel Clarke had found -he and Riley would carry most of the equipment. The procession started slowly, carefully by-passing awkward piles of clutter, as they headed toward an open corridor that led to the outside and, eventually, the Seaview. They passed the grim, still-sparking generator and the horrible remains at its foot. As they paused for a moment, Thibideau slowly turned his head toward the awful sight, eyes clearing for just a moment as he whispered softly: "Adam..."  
  
Then the Seaview's shore party headed toward the bitter outdoors...and their present home.  
  
  



	2. 2

4  
  
  
  
Transmission from InterAllied Command, office of Fleet Commander Carter James Thomas. Regarding inquiry by Admiral Harriman Nelson as to the status of Antarctic Station Delta and Seaview mission thereto: Further investigation into said research station has neither proven nor disproven aforementioned potential theory of the possibility of some unknown private enterprise underway on the premises of Antarctic Station Delta by also aforementioned science teams into area of artificially engineered biological weapons, products, or pathogens. Previous transmissions from Station Delta were routine in nature and were in regards to multinationally approved "Phoenix Project".  
  
Regarding second inquiry, however, on status of S.S.N. Voyageur and crew, the Canadian government has indicated that her commanding officer -Captain Adam Lawrence Hudson- had made an official complaint in regards to the reluctance of the Delta scientific team to co-operate with official inquiries on the progress of project. At the time of the unusual transmission from Delta, InterAllied Command was still awaiting results of Captain Hudson's further investigations as approved by the Canadian government and InterAllied Command.  
  
Because of obvious sensitive nature of Station Delta's work, Seaview is under command by InterAllied to rig for complete radio-silence until mission's completion or until two weeks have passed from the time of this transmission. Submarines Lockwood and John Holland will await your arrival at previously transmitted co-ordinates until that time. Late arrival or non-arrival will constitute emergency situation; any searches or rescue attempts on your behalf would begin only at that time.  
  
Upon your arrival at base in Santa Barbara, Voyageur's nuclear arsenal will be off-loaded and transferred to Canadian submarine, S.S.N. Trudeau. Any biological samples and/or evidence of aforementioned Project M.I.N.A., if found to exist, will be transferred to the InterAllied carrier Titania at that time.   
  
End transmission -Fleet Commander Carter James Thomas.  
  
  
  
  
Doc sat back in the swivel chair before his desk and rubbed his eyes as if the effort would exorcise the heaviness from the lids or the soreness within them. It didn't help much, and as a doctor, he had known that it wouldn't, but the effort didn't hurt either. With a frustrated shake of his head to clear the mental cobwebs confounding his thoughts, he opened a drawer in the desk and removed a small, hand-held recording unit, and pressed the "record" button, speaking into the built-in microphone as the tiny reels of the micro-tape began to spin.  
  
"Medical report on Seaview shore party and rescued survivor -as by the Chief Medical Officer of the S.S.R.N. Seaview; a follow-up." Doc glanced at the written report on his desk, flipped several sheets up, giving them a cursory look-over, and then let the pages fall one on top of the other until the report cover fell shut. "All tests indicate that both the shore party and the Delta survivor are free of any infection or illness. Final tests have been performed on Petty Officer First Class Devereaux...seamen Tomàs, Clarke, Kowalski, and Riley also. Captain Crane is having a final blood work-up performed at this time -however, I expect the results to mirror those of his shore party. Please note that though injuries suffered by shore party due to the attack on their persons during the shore-side mission were unpleasant, they were relatively minor in nature. Devereaux, Clarke, Kowalski, and Riley suffered deep scratches that were treated only with antiseptics and ointments to increase the speed of healing -no sutures were required. Captain Crane and crewman Tomàs required conventional stitches for bite wounds; Tomàs requiring same for particularly deep scratches -as well as the healing ointments, a course of antibiotics were also given as part of their treatment as an extra precaution though no infections of any kind were found to be present."  
  
Doc clicked a button on the micro-recorder, putting the small machine on "pause" as he rose from his seat and walked from the Sick Bay's ante-room into Sick Bay proper. The bunks in Sick Bay were deserted save for one. The Chief Medical Officer leaned over the young man on the bunk. The man's eyes were empty and staring, rarely blinking. The doctor flashed a penlight into them, but beyond a minor reflexive reaction of the pupils to the light, there was no response. Doc shoved the penlight into the pocket of his medical overcoat and clicked the machine again. "Subject: Thibideau, Lieutenant Jr. Gr. Mathieu Marcel -corpsman. Subject is somewhat underweight due to borderline malnutrition and minor dehydration, in a state of deep near-comatose withdrawal for causes as yet unknown. Identity of subject confirmed by cross-reference of finger prints and retina scan graph. Subject Thibideau has checked out as uninfected by any unknown or known contagion. As yet, mental state is not yet cause for alarm and patient will no doubt recover in time as no biological cause can be found for said condition. As I suspect that the cause for said condition is entirely psychological in nature, his case will be referred to the psychiatric corps."  
  
But what psychological cause, Doc wondered, staring down at the young corpsman who, to his estimation, appeared to be far too young to be serving on a submarine in the first place let alone as an officer. The blankness of the corpsman's present expression was just a mask, hiding something...perhaps experiences or memories so horrible that he could not bear to face them or the real world in which they had taken place. But what?  
  
Doc spoke into the recorder again. "Personal notes: I reviewed the tapes of the video-feed from the sunken S.S.N. Voyageur and am forced to wonder if subject was forced to witness similar scenes of such inexplicable destruction and horror. If I had been forced to witness and remain among horrors such as those, I am not certain that my sanity would survive either."  
  
Just then, Doc heard the door to the Sick Bay's ante-room swing open with its familiar squeak (had to remember to get it oiled or replaced), and pressed the "stop" button of the micro-recorder as he heard Admiral Nelson's familiar step. "Doc?"  
  
"I'll be right out, Admiral. Just finishing the follow-up medical report."  
  
"Take your time, Doc." Nelson stared at the open door that led to Sick Bay proper as he slowly slid from foot to foot -impatient, waiting. Despite what he had said in the spirit of politeness, his patience was wearing egg-shell thin. The transmission he had finally been able to get through to InterAllied Command hadn't borne much fruit. He knew as little about Station Delta as he did when this mission began...which wasn't much. All that was really clear was that his assignment was to find evidence of the nebulous Project M.I.N.A....and that, for the time being, for the duration of the mission, Seaview was on her own.  
  
Nelson stared at the map of the Seaview mounted on the bulkhead. Upon arrival on Seaview, his captain's shore party had been met by the requisite team of corpsmen in anti-contamination suits -he had been among them, waiting for answers that he was certain that he would not like. Moot point. Liking what he would hear or learn was never a consideration.  
  
A colorful object on Doc's desk caught Nelson's eye and he soon found himself idly toying with a game that had become the latest fad with the present love of the simpler days of the late twentieth century -a Rubik's Cube. A simple problem -getting the squares of one color onto one side- with a difficult solution -the same.  
  
Before the shore party had been herded into the decontamination cubicles, Crane had handed him an old burlap satchel, apparently once belonging to Captain Hudson of the Voyageur, evidenced by the initials stitched into the scuffed outside. Initial hopes of an easily acquired answer to the questions that plagued the mission had immediately been quashed upon first sight of the writing on the papers and the spiral-bound journal within... Whoever had written the odd notations -Captain Hudson or another- the words had been scribed in some weird kind of short-hand. It would take time -time they could not afford in face of InterAllied's insistence on a quick answer- to decipher them...and, Nelson noted with a frustrated twist of the multi-colored cube, his secretarial skills were, to say the least, a little rusty.  
  
"Admiral..?"  
  
Nelson looked up from the object of his fascination a little sheepishly, mildly surprised by Doc's sudden appearance from the Sick Bay proper. He idly set the Rubik's Cube back on the Chief Medical Officer's desk, half complete. "How are the test results, Doc?"  
  
"Quite good, Admiral," Doc answered with a slight lift to his eyebrows, unable to deny his puzzlement, considering what he had been told about Delta. He set the micro-recorder back in its usual resting place and sat on the edge of his desk. "Tests came back... negative...and that's for every member of the shore party." Doc opened the report folder, glanced at the notes again, and let it fall shut. "At the moment, I'm only waiting for the final blood tests for-" Just then, the door to the Sick Bay swung open and a corpsman wearing a white med-lab overcoat entered the room as both officers fell silent. He handed Doc a sealed vial of blood bearing a label with the name; "Crane, Captain Lee B." scribed on it in blue marker ink.  
  
"Final lab tests indicate no foreign bacteria, viruses, or abnormal pathogen of any kind, sir," the corpsman said, indicating the vial and then lab results' papers which he had pulled from a pocket within his lab coat. "Shall I tell the Captain that he is free to get back into uniform?"   
  
"Humor me a moment longer, Taylor," Doc murmured with a slight smile crooking the corner of his mouth as he regarded the officious young corpsman. The young medical officer stood silently aside, not acknowledging the unsaid jibe at his expense, as Doc took the vial and removed from it a single, tiny drop of blood which he put on a transparent slide and then carefully placed the prepared sample before the lens of the electronic microscope.  
  
Nelson waited with ill-suppressed impatience for Doc to make his final examination of the sample before him. A seeming eternity seemed to pass before the doctor moved away from the microscope, and stood up with a nod of mingled relief and satisfaction. "All clear, Admiral -the Captain's fine." Doc noted how the Admiral's shoulders slumped with the release of some inner tension despite his too-obvious efforts to mask it; a deeper personal relief than the doctor himself could possibly feel though he cared for all of Seaview's crew members in the way that doctors were expected to. It was well known, though generally unspoken, that the Admiral and the Captain were especially close friends; almost like brothers...more like father and son. "Taylor, would you inform the Captain now that he is free to get dressed?"  
  
"Aye, sir," the corpsman said with a terse little nod and left the room.  
  
A stillness settled on the room for the longest time as Doc placed the sample and the vial in a secure container, the Admiral following him all the while with his eyes until he felt he could no longer remain silent. "Is it some kind of psychological perversity, Doc?"   
  
Doc regarded the Admiral, searching his expression. "Is what 'some kind of psychological perversity', Admiral?"  
  
Nelson offered the doctor a beleaguered half-smile. "There are times that I wonder about the possible perversity of my own hidden nature. Now, here, we've proven that both parties -diving and shore- came away unscathed by some kind of malady we feared we might find -and believe me, I am delighted that they did...yet, I find myself disappointed like some sort of ghoul that after coming all this way that we didn't find anything." Nelson shook his head in bewilderment. "I must be one of the most twisted men alive."  
  
"Hardly," Doc replied with a slight, weary grin. The smile faded almost as quickly as if it had never been. "I don't know, Admiral...despite the lack of evidence of some mystery disease or genetic engineering, we're left with more questions than answers."  
  
"I know," Nelson muttered sourly. "Not the least of which is disease or no, what happened at Station Delta and why?"  
  
"You said that the Captain brought aboard some kind of notes?"  
  
"In some kind of short-hand...definitely not official Navy script," Nelson replied as if stating the obvious, "and I don't know anyone aboard who took civilian secretarial courses. It's going to take time to-"  
  
Nelson and Doc turned in response to the turning of the doorknob. The door swung open and the Captain of the Seaview entered, in the process of fastening his uniform shirt. Like the other crew members who had experienced the decontamination chamber's cleansing rays, his olive skin had taken on a definite flush like that of a slight sunburn. As if sensing Nelson's concern, he flashed a reassuring smile and extended a hand. "Admiral."  
  
"Lee..." Nelson said, grasping Crane's hand. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"Fine," Crane replied, not quite expunging from his voice the puzzlement he felt inside. The fact of the matter was that he did feel fine; better, in fact, than he had for days. The aches and pains that had wracked his body were gone and he could breathe freely -his chest and sinuses were startlingly clear. It was as if he had never had the flu at all...if he had had the flu... It was all too strange. Perhaps adrenaline was the new cure-all for the common cold -and he had had more than a little of that anxiety-spawned substance flowing through his veins in the last while.  
  
Crane glanced at Doc who motioned for him to sit down on the roll-away examination table as he put the earphones of the stethoscope in his ears and placed something that felt like a block of ice against the Captain's chest. "Doc, is this absolutely nec-"  
  
"Breathe in, please, Captain," Doc interrupted, heading off another potential argument with Seaview's captain over the overly fastidious nature of his chief medical officer. "Again -and hold it for a moment. That's fine."  
  
Crane plucked the signet ring that rarely left his finger from the pouch in which the corpsmen had had him leave it while he had undergone decontamination and testing. He winced as Doc sounded his back with the ice-cold stethoscope and resisted the urge to scowl at Nelson's amused grin. "Doc..."  
  
"Breathe in please. Again and deeply."  
  
Crane drew in a deeper breath and then sighed with relief as the seeming block of ice was finally removed from his back. "Doc... there isn't any reason that I shouldn't be feeling 'fine', is there?"  
  
"None of which I know, Captain," the doctor said reassuringly as he removed an opthalmoscope from a pocket in his medical overcoat. "Look this way, sir." He trained the thin needle of light on the Captain's eyes -one and then, the other- and snapped off the light, studying Crane with a new concern. "You haven't been experiencing any unusual symptoms that I know nothing of, have you, Captain? If you have, I have to insist that you tell me now."  
  
Crane noted the Admiral's deeply concerned frown. Allergies...it had to have been allergies. He couldn't remember there being a history of Hay Fever in his family, but... Crane shook his head, adding a mild shrug. "No, Doc. Nothing unusual."  
  
"Good," Doc said, reassured. He noted the new silence and took it as his cue to leave the room while his admiral and captain talked in private. "I'll be taking a look at our guest if you should need me."  
  
When Doc had finally left the Sick Bay's ante-room, mindfully closing the door to Sick Bay proper behind him, the two officers were left alone. Nelson studied Crane who was twisting the signet ring around his finger in a very familiar gesture of silent unease. Crane caught sight of the Admiral's probing stare and abruptly ceased the embarrassing nervous activity of his hands, letting them fall to his lap. "Lee," Nelson said quietly. "Are you certain that you're all right?"  
  
"I said that I am," Crane replied with a small dismissive shrug and then added: "Why shouldn't I be?"   
  
"You tell me ," Nelson said gently and then, remembering that no clam could be as tight-lipped as the Captain of the Seaview, he decided on a new tack. Lee Crane wanted to talk -he knew that, believed it at any rate- but getting him to talk was another thing entirely. "Let me tell you something, Lee."  
  
Crane stood up. "I should really be getting back to-"  
  
"Sit." Crane considered the Admiral's terse order and then reclaimed his seat, a little warily. Nelson pulled a seat of his own to where Crane sat regarding him with open unease. "I'm telling you, Lee -no matter how well trained one is in the military, it has little or no bearing on how one reacts to scenes like the ones that the shore and diving parties saw first-hand."  
  
"I'm...I'm not sure that I understand what you mean, sir."  
  
"And I'm just as sure that you do," Nelson said, observing Crane's unwillingness or inability to look him straight in the eye. "Once, as an ensign, I had the unpleasant duty to assist in the mop-up job after an accident that caused the destruction of a fine naval vessel and the deaths of many of her men..."  
  
"Do you mean...the engine explosion on the old S.S.Combatant that you once told me about ?"  
  
"The same," Nelson affirmed with a wince at the sudden spate of old, unpleasant memories resurfacing all at once. "But I never told you the details of what I saw there...or the effect it all had on me. For the purpose of an accurate investigation, the Navy had to leave the scene as it was for more than a day while investigators pored over the remains. I...helped take a photographic record of the scene and I also...saw things that no man should ever see." Nelson uttered a small hollow laugh. "I still remember them."  
  
"I still don't see what that has to do with me," Crane said as if not entirely convinced by his own opinion.  
  
"As happened with myself -as happens with many others- there is a shock syndrome that occurs when one is faced with such terrible sights and experiences. It makes itself known perhaps physically or psychologically...as nightmares or headaches-"  
  
"I heaved my guts all over the floor." Crane met Nelson's eyes apprehensively. "That is what you wanted to know, isn't it? I got sick to my stomach and I still feel sick."  
  
"I suspected that it might have been something like that," Nelson said quietly. "For me, it was a rash of brutal headaches that lasted for over a week. They began to fade when I talked it out with a counselor on the base."  
  
Crane's eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. "How did you know?" He nodded slowly at the answer that his own imagination provided for him and sighed as if resigned. "Kowalski told you."  
  
"No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"What tipped me off," Nelson admitted with a wry smile, "was the fact that of all the shore and diving party members, you're the only one not to admit to feeling completely miserable after your experience -at least, until now."  
  
A soft laugh escaped Crane's lips. "I should know better than to try to fool you."  
  
Nelson tilted his head in assent. "That would be wise... In any case, there's nothing to be ashamed of -it happens."  
  
"Like Thibideau in there?" Crane asked, jerking a thumb in the direction of Sick Bay proper. The Admiral nodded ruefully. "And what about that poor soul who attacked my shore party?"  
  
"I can only imagine that he remained in the midst of the horrors too long...after a time, revulsion must have become madness. The parties, even Thibideau will recover in time, but he..." Nelson let the sentence drop. "We don't even know who he was."  
  
"Captain Adam Hudson of the Voyageur." Nelson glanced up sharply at Crane's whispered words -silent and yet, questioning. "The more I think about it, the more I believe it," Crane said sadly, grim pictures playing before his mind's eye like some old movie reel. "I saw the similarity between his and Thibideau's uniform, the fact that even in his state that he still resembled the description InterAllied sent us...the captain's bars..." Crane stared at a blank wall for several minutes while Nelson looked on, waiting for him to continue. "But who wants to believe that something like that can happen to a man -a fellow captain? And the fact that Thibideau called after him even in his own confused condition..." Crane buried his head in his hands until he felt the comforting pressure of the Admiral's hand on his shoulder and looked up. "That shouldn't happen to an animal, sir."  
  
"I know, Lee...I know." Nelson drew a deep sigh -back to business. "For tonight, we'll lay-to at these co-ordinates. Perhaps, translated, Hudson's notes will provide us with a few clues -either way, it can wait until morning."  
  
"Yes, sir," Crane admitted with a half-stifled yawn. "I guess it can-" Just then, Crane grimaced and massaged his stomach. "Oh my..."  
  
"What is it, Lee?" Nelson demanded, seeing the sudden ashen pallor on Crane's face.  
  
"Nothing..." Crane replied, slightly perplexed. "Gas, I think." He sighed with a small smile of relief. "It was just a- God..." Crane clutched at his stomach, his face straining and whitened, his breath coming out in small gasps. "Oh jeeze..."  
  
Nelson reacted with alarm. "I'll get Doc-"  
  
"No...no, it's okay..." Crane straightened up, the color coming back to his pale visage; a more relaxed, though slightly bewildered expression on his face. He uttered a weak laugh as his stomach gave a grotesque, audible groan. "I...I just realized that I haven't eaten in about twelve hours -as my treasonous stomach has just chosen to inform me."  
  
"You're...sure about that?" the Admiral said, studying the young commanding officer, not quite convinced.  
  
"Quite sure," Crane said with a sheepish grin.  
  
"Well then..." Nelson said as he took Crane by the arm, insistently guiding him toward the door that led to the corridor outside. "At the risk of engendering nightmares by eating before you sleep, I suggest that you stop at the Mess -before you turn in."  
  
Crane regarded the Admiral incredulously after glancing at his watch. "But I have another hour on my watch. The debriefing-"  
  
"I take it back," Nelson interrupted with a thinly disguised grin. "That was not a suggestion -it was an order, Captain."  
  
"Aye, sir..." Crane answered, recognizing the caring in the gruff-sounding command. He opened the door that led out into the corridor and headed towards the Ship's Mess -he did not note the fleeting frown of concern that passed over Nelson's face.  
  
  
  
  
It took a moment to realize where he was.  
  
Kowalski sluggishly studied his surroundings, eyes rapidly blinking against the glue that seemed to make it difficult to keep them open despite the brain's commands to do so, and gave the heavy lick of hair that had drifted into his eyes a brush with one hand while he pushed himself up from his awkward reclining position with the other. As the last of sleep's fog dissipated, he recognized the wall-mounted cot that was his bunk and sat up sharply as he realized that he had fallen asleep with his scarlet utility tunic uniform half-off and rolled down to his waist. A quick check of his watch affirmed the lateness of the hour: "2200 hours". Kowalski's eyes widened as he marveled disgruntledly at how tired he must have been to have fallen asleep in the midst of readying himself for bed -early, and on Doc's orders.  
  
The man seemed to think that the sights that this seaman had seen might have put some kind of unusual kind of mental strain on the shore party members -some kind of shock that was best treated with talk and early bed-rest....as if he hadn't wanted to heave his guts all over the deck over sights of lesser horrors. Kowalski closed his eyes as a new wave of tiredness washed over him...still weary. The unexpected nap had not exorcised the need to rest, but he didn't want to give into Morpheus just yet. No...not yet. When his eyes closed for too long, vague images of carbonized human forms materialized before his mind's eye; their empty-eyed stares, the gaping grins, echoes of distant voices borne on a ghostly wind... The seaman shook his head and the phantoms of dream-time thought fled -for now.  
  
He would sleep eventually -there was no choice in that matter. Bur for now, this ordinary seaman just wanted to get out the day's uniform...maybe think, maybe just read Patterson's newest issue of Playboy -he knew where he hid them. Right beside a pack of carob-mint cookies he had brought along with him on this cruise just in case the ship's cook got too inventive with his galley culinary experimentations.  
  
Kowalski pushed himself off of his bunk and stood up, stretching each tired limb, muscles straining taut until the bones creaked in silent protest and the muscles could be pulled no further, and then relaxed, enjoying the release. He shrugged off his uniform, stripping down to his briefs, and began to massage a slightly tender spot in the small of his back. Stiff as a rod...maybe serving on board Seaview was taking its toll on him.  
  
The craziness...the sheer insanity... It had all become a part of this seaman's life the day that he had volunteered to leave the regular Navy and serve on some new type of prototype nuclear submarine that most of the Navy at the time called "Nelson's Folly" -the S.S.R.N. Seaview, created at the Nelson Institute of Marine Research. Yeah...it was getting to him all right. With every ache and pain, with every groan that followed, he sounded more and more like his old man.  
  
"Aches..." Kowalski frowned as he caught sight of his injured thumb all swathed in bandages -not a break, Doc had said; just a nasty cut and an even nastier bruise. It would probably hurt a lot for the next week or so, Doc had pronounced, a thoroughly unnecessary grin on his lips -the accident hadn't been all that funny. Oddly enough, though, his thumb was the only part of his body that didn't ache. Curiosity triumphing over better judgment, Kowalski took a first-aid kit from his locker and, using the tiny pair of scissors within the kit, snipped the sticky bandage and unwound the gauze wrapped around the digit. The thumb was still discolored, still had an ugly-looking cut that stretched from the nail to the knuckle, but it didn't look even half as bad as he remembered it -the bruise was actually smaller somehow. He was sure of it. Besides...it didn't hurt. Doc had been right. He had overreacted.  
  
At that moment, the door to the crew's room swung open and the tall, lanky form of Patterson appeared in the doorway. He paused and stopped, stifling a long yawn with his curled fist and then, with a clearing shake of his head, entered the room. "'Ski..."  
  
"Pat..." Kowalski murmured and pulled the edge of a strip of gauze from its roll. He glanced up momentarily. "Hard watch?"  
  
"No kidding..." Patterson sighed heavily as he pulled a bath towel from his locker and slung it over his shoulder. "It felt like the longest in history. Mr. O'Brien had me at that sonar board for almost eight hours straight! And for what I don't know. We're 90 feet under the Antarctic Ocean and we're the only ones here!"  
  
"Ehhh...this Delta thing has got just about everyone on edge," Kowalski muttered off-handedly as he finished winding the bandage around his thumb. He cut the straggling end with his teeth. "Don't let it get to you."  
  
"Yeah...I guess..." Patterson's voice trailed off as he stared at the cake of soap, which smelled slightly of detergent, clutched in his hand. "'Ski..?"  
  
Kowalski flexed his bandaged hand -it was stiff, but it would do. He winced at the small discomfort of the pull of bandage's fabric against his skin and muttered "What?" as Patterson's question finally filtered from his ears to his brain. He glanced up when there was no immediate response and saw the troubled expression on Patterson's face as the young seaman stared into the distance at nothing at all in particular. "Well?" Kowalski snapped, immediately regretting the sharpness of his tone of voice. "What is it?"  
  
Patterson looked up with apprehension, dreading the question that he had decided that he needed to ask someone -almost anyone- before the thought drove him off the deep-end. Kowalski was waiting with obvious impatience. "'Ski, you think that I'm pretty level-headed, don't you?"  
  
"I'm beginning to wonder," Kowalski murmured as he shoved the first-aid kit onto a shelf in his locker. He suddenly caught Patterson's expression which now seemed all the more pained and sighed aloud, relenting. "So, what's eating you?"  
  
"I'm not sure..." Patterson said with a helpless shake of his head, "but if I don't tell someone, I'm gonna lose my mind over this thing." Patterson sat on the opposite edge of Kowalski's bunk as his fellow seaman shut the door to his locker which resounded with a hollow clang. "So," Kowalski said, studying the distinctly haunted cast on Patterson's face. "Don't leave me hanging."  
  
Patterson allowed the green-striped cake of soap to fall from his hand onto the bunk as his terrycloth towel tumbled to the slightly crumpled blanket in a loose, unkempt heap. "'Ski, what I... No, what -we- saw on Voyageur -was it like that at the base...at Delta?"  
  
"I guess..." Kowalski closed his eyes as another wave of weariness swept over him...and just for a moment, he was back among the ruins of Antarctic Station Delta, surrounded by death and the dead. He opened his eyes with a start and swallowed deeply. Patterson didn't seem to have noticed his brief lapse as he was staring again at nothing, likely surrounded by his own apparently troubled thoughts. The seaman shook his head, warding off the demons of sleep for a little longer.  
  
"The bodies were frozen in place by the blast, right?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess. Mostly..." Kowalski regarded Patterson through bleary, tiredness-reddened eyes. "Look, Pat, if this is another game of Twenty Questions, can we save it 'till morning? I'm really not-"  
  
"I think some of the crew were too busy fighting to bother trying to escape."  
  
There was a sudden utter silence as Kowalski sat up straight in aghast disbelief, suddenly completely awake. He studied his fellow crewman, his friend, a thin rattled laugh escaping his lips to break the strained silence, but the laugh died quickly. Patterson was many things, but he was not a liar...and his expression was too bleak, too distressed for this to be some sort of a gag, and black humor had never been Patterson's way...especially not at a time like this. Kowalski shook his head tiredly, drawing his bandaged hand through the slightly rumpled dark hair. "Pat, look, I...I know you've seen some...awful things -we all did. It's affected all of us in some way -me, Riley, even the Cap -ah...er...it's just that this idea of yours is too-"  
  
Kowalski's utter disbelief was not lost on the blue-uniformed crewman who studied him and waited as Kowalski got up and anxiously paced the length of the crew's quarters. He had expected this kind of reaction and would have been surprised if Kowalski had reacted any other way. "'Ski. Look at me." Kowalski stopped in his tracks, surprised by the unusual note of authority in Patterson's voice. Neither of them outranked the other. They were, both of them, seamen first class -double "A" security clearance in the ParaNavy and the regular Navy, but it just usually seemed to follow that he was the leader, and Patterson, the follower. Patterson, his visage stern, held his hands out flat. "Are my hands shaking, 'Ski? Do I have the tremors...the sweats? I am not suffering some kind of mental shock syndrome."  
  
"All right," Kowalski conceded almost begrudgingly, "you're not wigged out...but you couldn't have-"  
  
"Crewmen in two different compartments -I couldn't tell how exactly how many- I'd almost swear they were fighting, wrestling, something, when the blast hit!" Patterson said, slapping fist against open palm. "They didn't even have time to move!" Patterson seemed to slump inwardly. "Or they didn't even try."  
  
Grim images of the recent past fluttered at the back of Kowalski's mind -ghostly pictures of carbonized bodies huddled together or..? "I don't know, Pat...did anyone else see this?"   
  
"I don't know." Patterson sat heavily on the edge of the bunk and met his friend's eyes. "'Ski, I'm not crazy, am I?"  
  
"Tired is more like it," Kowalski said with great sympathy. At the moment, he was too weary to be angry, and too amazed at his own instance of willingness to believe the impossible to point out the ridiculousness of Patterson's new pet theory. He clasped Patterson's shoulder. "Pat...do you want my advice?"  
"Yeah..." Patterson muttered. "I do."  
  
"Take a long shower. Turn in. If you feel the same way in the morning -report your suspicions to the Chief, but..." Kowalski lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I wouldn't be too surprised if you don't."  
  
"Yeah, I-I guess so." Patterson wearily gathered up his towel and soap, but stopped just as he was about to enter the shower area of the Head, turned his head slightly and looked over his shoulder. "The Voyageur -nothing like that could happen to Seaview...to all of us, could it?"  
  
Kowalski shook his head as if with the greatest conviction. "Nah...never happen."  
  
Patterson nodded with somewhat less conviction. "Good."  
  
Soon, the sound of water pounding against the white tiles of a shower stall played in the back of Kowalski's perceptions as he rummaged through his locker. Soap, washcloth, and bath towel suddenly came tumbling out from one of the shelves, one after the other, like an upset house of cards, triggering a slew of choice obscenities from the seaman as he stooped to pick them up from the deck. He had only just pulled himself from his awkward kneeling position when the door to the crew's quarters swung open again, barely missing his head. Kowalski looked up, a dark scowl creasing his brow as Stu Riley entered the room. "Could you watch what you're doing, Stu!"  
  
"Huh..?" Riley regarded Kowalski dumbly as if he had been sleepwalking and his fellow seaman's voice had woken him from a nocturnal trance. "I...ah...I'm sorry..."  
  
"Stu, are you feeling okay?" Kowalski asked, struck by Riley's nearly sonambulistic attitude, but the question went unanswered as the preoccupied Riley walked past the puzzled seaman and hoisted himself up onto his bunk, quickly donning a familiar pair of earphones connected to his Sony Discman. Soon after, the familiar squeaky whisper of some vaguely familiar rock anthem could be heard, and for all intents and purposes, Stuart Riley was deaf to the world around him.   
  
Kowalski cast a slightly puzzled frown in the reclining Riley's direction and then shrugged his shoulders with the resignation of the fatigued. A day like the one that they had experienced could get to anyone -even the ever-exuberant Riley...and if Riley didn't feel like talking about it...well...he himself was presently too burned out to bother pressing the matter.  
  
As Kowalski turned towards the Head, he suddenly stopped, grimacing as a sharp pain stabbed at him in the middle of his stomach, twisting...and then, was gone. As if the pain had never been. For several minutes, the seaman stood where he was, a confounded cast to his visage as his stomach gave an audible gurgle. "Gas..." he muttered sourly, wincing as his stomach gave another, lesser pinch. He glanced to his side -Riley was still in his personal Discman-induced oblivion and hadn't even noticed the incident- and slung his towel over his shoulder.  
  
He hoped that maintenance had repaired the hot water taps.  
  
  
  
  
Was it fish or was it fowl?  
  
Lee Crane stared down at the plate set before him with the intense fascination of an unwilling witness to a gory accident where one doesn't want to look, but cannot force himself to look away. It was that kind of a feeling. He pushed a portion of the weird-looking, multi-hued casserole-like concoction with the thin tines of his fork, his mind dulled with some strange hybrid of boredom and fascination as he moved the piece of what Cookie had proudly claimed was his newly famous seafood lasagna slowly around the plate in a widening circle, each arc bringing the food no closer to his mouth. Fish or fowl...whatever Seaview's galley chief had presumed to call his latest culinary creation, this was definitely foul.  
  
Crane made a stab at the red, orange, and white covered pasta with his fork and held a piece up before his eyes, strings of partially melted synthetic mozzarella stretching from the plate to the fork, and then let both the fork and the portion fall to the plate with a noisy clatter, the tomato sauce only just missing his uniform shirt, but amply decorating the remainder of the plate and the immediate area around it. He couldn't eat this. Crane pushed the platter aside in nauseated disgust. He was hungry, and there wasn't really anything wrong with the food, but God help him, he could not eat this. The Captain of the Seaview sat back in his seat, aware of the cook's questioning stare, pointedly ignoring it as he rubbed his eyes, unwilling to give into sleep just yet. The Admiral had been right as usual. The sights at Antarctic Station Delta had affected him far more than he cared to admit.  
  
When he closed his eyes, he could see the charred bodies of those poor souls and almost smell the stink of carbonized flesh that the almost unfathomably bitter Antarctic chill could not hide...and when he did, he would feel the gorge rise up in his throat -the food, its sight and smell, only made him feel worse. It would take time to get over this -the Admiral had said as much- and he was unwilling to surrender himself to Morpheus' leaden embrace and chance being vulnerable to those nightmarish visions...not yet anyway.  
  
"Lee..?" Crane blinked, snapping out of his grim contemplations and glanced up in the direction of the familiar voice. Chip Morton had appeared at the table carrying with him a steaming mug of warm...milk? The Executive Officer cast a slightly embarrassed glance at the steaming mug. "I've been having trouble sleeping," he admitted almost sheepishly. Crane nodded silently -he understood. Morton gingerly sipped the drink and grimaced. Too hot. Several minutes passed, Morton studying his commanding officer in silence until he leaned over slightly and whispered conspiratorially: "So?"  
  
Crane raised an eyebrow quizzically. "So...'what'?"  
  
"So..." Morton said, effecting an attitude of puzzled insistence. "What did the Admiral have to say?"  
  
Crane shrugged slightly. "We're going to lay-to at these co-ordinates until mid-morning at least and then, we should be getting underway."  
  
A muted sigh of exasperation from Morton gently broke the ensuing stillness. He silently studied his captain a moment longer, watching the man apparently continue to play with his food, and then set his mug down on the table's dull surface. "No...what I meant was -what did the Admiral say about you having the flu and still being on duty?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You know..." Morton insisted, privately wondering whether Crane really didn't understand what he was talking about, or whether the man was just being deliberately obstinate about the matter. "The tests after the shore party must've shown-"  
  
"Oh...that," Crane murmured. "He didn't say anything."  
  
Morton reacted with ill-concealed surprise. "He didn't say anything?"  
  
"Exactly," Crane replied lightly, the glimmer of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth as he stared down at his plate, idly turning the tines of his fork among the gooey mess. "Not a single thing."  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"That's what I said," Crane replied with a dismissive hunch of his shoulders. There was no sign of me ever having had the flu at all."  
  
"Then what-"  
  
"Hay Fever, I guess...or something like that." Crane saw the incredulous look on his executive officer's countenance and felt himself compelled to smile a little wider. "Believe me, Chip," he said earnestly, "I'm surprised too. I feel perfectly fine now."  
  
"But..." A confused, convoluted mixture of profound relief and disbelief swept through Chip Morton's mind. If a ship's captain suffered, the whole ship felt the effects, and only a short while ago -a matter of hours, days- Lee Crane had looked ill enough to worry even this stolidly unperturbable executive officer. He had been pale, sickly...but -and Morton had to admit this- Lee Crane did not look sick now. Not even a little. "Lee...how can that be? A couple of days ago, you looked like death warmed over."  
  
"Thank you," Crane muttered with a pained expression.  
  
Morton shook his head slowly -only Lee Crane could have come out of a potentially sticky situation like this unscathed. "I guess cold weather agrees with you."  
  
"Maybe..." the Captain said, his voice drifting off, his attention suddenly elsewhere. But the moment passed quickly as though whatever had passed through Crane's mind hadn't been worth much consideration after all. He pushed his plate aside. "But I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to." A weary-looking galley crewman approached the Captain's table, and with his permission, collected the uneaten meal as Crane stood up and pushed his chair aside. There was a troubled cast to the young commanding officer's countenance; something the reassuring grin that he wore could not hide. "Looks like we've got a long run ahead of us, so I think I'll turn in now. See you at first watch."  
  
"Aye...sir," Morton replied with a small nod, again appreciating the slight shift that had come between them; the shift that sometimes came when his friend, his captain, had decided that he had said all that he intended to say. "Have a good rest, Lee."  
  
Crane hesitated at Morton's words as if he had paused to mentally digest the suggestion. He sighed softly. "I'll try."  
  
Morton stared silently after the Captain as he left the Ship's Mess, privately puzzled by Crane's behavior, but deciding, finally, not to pursue what Crane apparently did not wish to share. He put the mug to his lips and frowned.  
  
The drink had gone cold.  
  
  
  
  
"Lee Crane, you are truly one sorry son of a bitch..." The Captain of the Seaview studied the fatigue-ridden image that stared back at him from the mirror hanging in the private Head in his cabin. The reflection of himself seemed to stare back at him with mute sympathy as if agreeing with his personal assessment of his physical condition. As tiredness had begun to claim him, his countenance had become ashen with care, his dark eyes reddened and bleary. Crane ran a hand over his chin -needed a shave. Badly. He had occasionally considered the possibility of growing a beard or, perhaps, a mustache, but somehow, he never seemed to have the patience for it. Probably never would either. Tentative stubble would meet the rotating blades of his electric shaver first thing in the morning. A grin lit Crane's face and his twin image grinned back as if complimenting him on the first truly genuine smile he had experienced since arriving from Delta.  
  
The horrors were still there, and so were the questions...questions that would take more time than he and his crew had to answer them. He had never been one to run away from any mission, but this one... This one was one he would be glad to hand over to the purely investigative team that InterAllied would certainly send over to Station Delta once Admiral Nelson had handed over the little information that they had been able to gather from the ruins.  
  
Crane's hand brushed against the switch on the lamp beside his bunk and the bright glow of the bulb softened in response, becoming more muted and far less painful to his weariness-reddened eyes. The softer light seemed to distort already existing shadows, creating weirdly shaped dark recesses against the pale tan paint that covered the slightly curved bulkhead of his cabin. Too wound-up to sleep despite his tiredness...just yet. Crane reached over from his bunk to the table beside it and retrieved the heavily dog-eared second-hand book that the Admiral had loaned him -the book had been bought on a recent shore leave and had all the appearance of a tome that had been through far more than two owners despite being called "second-hand".  
  
No matter... Crane leaned back against his pillows, the slightly creased pages fluttering beneath his fingers until he came to the book-marked page and frowned with vague bemusement at the old-fashioned, 19th-century writing style which bordered on pretentious. "'When she raised it, his white night-robe was stained with blood where her lips had touched, and the open wound in her neck sent forth drops...'" Crane yawned and forced himself to continue, doggedly determined to finish this chapter of the book at least. "'The instant she saw it, she drew back with a low wail, and whispered amidst choking sobs: Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh that it should be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have most reason to fear...'"  
  
Another yawn, longer this time, escaped Crane's mouth as he sank deeply into the pillows, the book still in his hand. He closed his eyes for a moment, compelled by the stronger wave of weariness which was engulfing him, to set down the book for a little while.   
  
Seconds later, he was sound asleep.   
  
  
  
  
"Nelson."  
  
Harriman Nelson's eyes snapped open. For several long minutes, he lay on his bunk, still, eyes straining to pierce the darkness by which he was surrounded. He turned his head at a sound, a soft whispering sound like that of a sigh. "Who..?" Nelson pushed himself to an awkward sitting position, the box-springs of his bunk creaking softly with the shift of his weight. "Did someone-" In the darkness, the Admiral's visage creased with a frown. Dreaming. That was what it had to have been. Dreaming and a stray, whistling draft carried by the ventilation system. And yet... Nelson glanced at his digital clock. It was 0500 hours and he was alone in his cabin, but...he could almost have sworn that someone had called his name, rousing him from a well-deserved slumber. Nelson ran his fingers through his rumpled red hair. Foolishness, of course. Dreams created by a too-active brain no matter how real the delusion had seemed...a very weary brain.  
  
"Nelson."  
  
Harriman Nelson had forgotten far more of the ways of military preparedness than most would ever learn and his personal side-arm was in his hand even as he stabbed the switch on the cubically-shaped light on the bulkhead nearest his bunk. He swung around as the light, bright and stinging, flooded the cabin...and stopped short, mouth open in mute surprise...and disbelief.  
  
A few feet in front of him, the figure of a man sat in the visitor's chair beside his desk. The tall, lean, dark-haired man, a commander by the pips on his collar, stood up, apparently not particularly concerned by the semi-automatic trained on his person...and then stood quietly studying the incredulous Admiral Nelson, the fabric of the navy-blue uniform of a commissioned officer of the Canadian Navy rustling slightly as he spread his long-fingered hands, a quiet smile on his handsome face. "I'm not armed, Admiral," he said quietly, a curious, soft echo to his voice. He had a definite accent; something from the eastern regions of Canada, perhaps Ontario. "And in any case," he said, "shooting me wouldn't do anything but ruin the wall behind me." Whereupon, the uninvited "guest" drew his hand quite literally through the darkly lacquered hardwood surface of Nelson's desk. "As you can see."  
  
"No..." Nelson whispered, finally reclaiming his lost voice. He knew the face -he had read a copy of Voyageur's personnel files...had seen the pictures. "Captain Hudson..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You're dead," Nelson murmured lamely, the gun in his hand feeling like a useless lump of lead.  
  
"I know," the apparition said with a pronounced sigh. "I saw the body -I've never seen a mess like that before. Your captain did the right thing, you know -killing me- I would have killed him, killed your entire shore party, had he not." The phantom shook his head. "I would have had no choice...neither did he...and neither will you."  
  
Nelson passed a hand over his eyes, trying to wipe away the vision before them, but the effort was unsuccessful as the ghostly being was still there when he opened his eyes, waiting patiently. "I don't understand any of this."  
  
"I'm not surprised."  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
The ghost of Captain Hudson appeared to sit of the edge of Nelson's desk. "You have no idea of what's going on here, Admiral...neither did the crew of my ship. The people at Delta knew, but they couldn't stop it -that's why everyone had to die the way they did...my crew, their people..." The apparition paused as if it had become difficult to speak. "I made the only decision available to stop the spread of the evil they had loosed."  
  
"Then you did create those bombs." Nelson stared at the entity before him. If he stared hard enough, he could almost discern the opposite end of his cabin through the ephemeral form. "You were responsible for the deaths of nearly three hundred innocent souls!"  
  
"Never innocent...and most were dead long before I had to...take care of the rest," the ghost said, his countenance profoundly sad. "Please don't judge me, Admiral. You, yourself, may have to make the same decision."  
  
"You're talking in riddles."  
  
"Not really." The image of Captain Hudson paused and watched as Nelson slowly lowered his gun. "Project M.I.N.A. was a pact with the Devil himself. The scientists at Delta created a terrible evil, Admiral...an evil which gave the Devil children -my crew, the personnel at Delta...and now, your crew -even your captain. Project M.I.N.A. wouldn't release my crew -and believe me, they did try to escape its reach. It won't release your crew either." The ghostly captain gestured toward the cabin door. "You see?"  
  
Despite himself, Nelson felt compelled to look at the door. A light, a strange fluctuating orange-red glow, had begun to seep into the cabin from the space between the bottom of the door and the deck...and then, as if guided by invisible hands, the handle jiggled and then turned, unlocking itself. The door slowly, quietly began to inch open. Fear clutching at him, Nelson quickly glanced behind himself -his cabin was empty; his ghostly visitor had vanished- and then, walked into the light.  
  
Seaview was in ruins.  
  
The corridors of the submarine that was Nelson's brainchild were blackened and scorched, her deck cracked and pitted, distant flames creating unearthly shadows as they danced a demonic dervish. Emergency neons, flickering and sparking, emitted a sanguine glow. Suddenly, the door to Nelson's cabin slammed itself shut behind him, locking itself noisily as the deck tilted crazily to one side. What was this! There was the sound of distant explosions, like thunder which shook the submersible again and again...and beyond and beside that...the sound of voices...human, not human...moans, cries... Screams. But Nelson could see no-one. No-one at all.  
  
Struggling to see through the murky smoke-ridden brume, Nelson spied the door to Crane's cabin -it was hanging awkwardly from its twisted hinges, swinging ever so slightly, banging against the torn and twisted doorjamb. Nelson saw a shifting in an unearthly light that was coming from Crane's cabin, strange and almost blood-red, and struggled to maintain his footing as he made his way along the madly tilted deck towards it. He peered in, straining to see through the fog of acrid smoke and saw a figure there, seated and hunched over on the bunk. "Lee..."  
  
Lee Crane looked up at the sound of his admiral's voice. "Admiral."  
  
"Lee, what's happening here!" Nelson demanded. He stopped short as he saw the semi-automatic in Crane's hand, dangling there as if the Captain had forgotten its presence or didn't particularly care that it was there. "What are you-" Crane mutely, listlessly, looked towards the deck just before his feet and Nelson followed his train of vision...and felt the bile rise in his throat as the curtain of smoke parted. On the deck, in a pile that was macabre in its nearly impossible neatness, were the bodies of several crewmen that had been alive only hours ago -their throats had been torn out as if they had each been attacked by a wild animal...and each one had a huge bloody, ragged bullet hole squarely in the middle of the pulpy remains of their foreheads. Nelson looked at Crane, only just now noticing the blood splattered on his uniform shirt, his hands, and smeared on his cheek and around his mouth -blood that wasn't his own. There wasn't a mark on him.  
  
"I had to do it, Admiral," the Captain said softly, a small tremor in his voice. "I didn't have a choice. The thirst..." He shook his head in some kind of inner anguish and then looked up with eyes that were glazed with insanity and reflected the strange light as two hard rubies. "They wouldn't stay dead otherwise." Crane laughed softly, shakily, as he stood up, training the gun on Nelson who could only look on in absolute horror. "You...you could have stopped this, you know."  
  
"Lee..."  
  
Crane's expression hardened as his bloody fist pounded against his chest, angrily punctuating his words. "I didn't want to go to that place...I did not-" He grimaced as if suddenly overcome by terrible pain. "I did not want to."  
  
"Lee, listen to me," Nelson implored. "I don't know what has happened to you, but we can-"  
  
"You made me do it!" All of a sudden, Crane's twisted visage softened as if a veil of horror had been lifted from his face. He released the safety catch on the gun. "But it stops here. It goes no further." He slowly raised the weapon -and turned its thick black muzzle towards his own temple. "I'm sorry."  
  
Nelson lunged forward, reaching for the service weapon, but it was as if he was caught in a time warp, his limbs stiff, his movements impossibly slow. "Lee! No!" The explosion threw Nelson backwards. "No-"  
  
It was dark.  
  
Nelson found himself on his bunk, his blankets snarled around his legs, sitting bolt upright. His body, pajamas, and bedsheets were soaked in sweat, his chest heaving against a heart that beat with such fury that it seemed to be struggling to free itself from the confines of his own body. As his heart slowly resumed its normal rhythm, he sat slumped over, his head resting in his hands.  
  
Nightmares. He had had nightmares before, but nothing like this. Why- Nelson's eyes narrowed as he tried to grasp at the ethereal strands of the hellish dream. The memories of the night terror had begun to fold in on themselves, waking forgetfulness already beginning to dull the mental images...save for one. "Lee."  
  
Nelson stood up suddenly and unsteadily, pulling on his bathrobe as he opened the door to his cabin and stumbled out into the still, quiet corridor. It had only been a nightmare and his present actions were irrational -he knew that- but he had to be sure. He had to.  
  
Steeling himself with a weak, hastily devised excuse, Nelson stopped before Crane's cabin and gently rapped on the door which, to his surprise, slowly swung open. Somehow, it had been shut-to, but not properly closed. Odd, but... Nelson cautiously peered inside the quarters and slumped inwardly with a deep sigh of relief -Crane was sound asleep on his bunk, the blankets only partially covering his body. The lamp was still on, its bulb burning coolly, softly, and the book that the Captain had apparently been reading was still dangling from his limp hand.  
  
The Admiral, shaking his head over the sheer irrationality of his behavior in the face of a simple nightmare, retrieved the book just as it was about to fall to the deck and placed it on the nightstand beside Crane's bunk. Scuttlebutt had it that he treated the young commanding officer, that was to him a friend and a son, like a child. Perhaps there was some small truth to that particular rumor, some grain of fact. Few knew it, but he had known Lee Crane since the Captain had been a mere infant. Crane had become the son that he had never had...and because of that, the line between personal feelings and naval duty could easily become muddied and confused. Perhaps because of this, Nelson knew, he occasionally worried too much -the strangeness and events that had surrounded the mission since its conception hadn't helped at all; a fertile breeding ground for the sort of nightmare he had just suffered.  
  
Feeling both foolish and relieved, Nelson quietly doused the lamplight, and casting another look at the deeply sleeping man, left the cabin and closed the door behind him without so much as a sound.  
  
  
  
  
Morning and night had become one. At this time of the year -in this part of the Earth, a part that did not follow the cycles of days and nights with which most were familiar- the difference between a night and a day could only be discerned by the changing digits of a clock or the subtle difference between the bitterly cold day and the deadly cold night. There was no day as such -only night...and the only thing shrouded in a more complete darkness was the Seaview.  
  
The frigid waters that surrounded the great silver-grey submersible were black at this depth. The clouds in the sky above her, shrouded the dark canopy completely -there was no glow of moon or stars, and therefore Seaview herself was the only source of light where she hovered in the deep near the land mass where there was little more light...and no life.  
  
"Lee?"  
  
The Captain of the Seaview started slightly at the sound of his executive officer's voice and turned away from the sight of the seemingly endless darkness beyond the massive viewing ports of the Seaview's observation nose. "Everything is in order," Morton said, handing him the completed checklist he carried. "We can get underway to retrieve Voyageur's missiles at your command."  
  
Crane studied the list, eyes moving left to right along the printed page, quickly and silently, until he stopped, and with a small nod, jotted his signature on the bottom of the page. "Anything else?" he asked as he handed back the signed list. Crane reached for the half-drunken cup of coffee he had left on the long, lacquered meeting table and then looked to his side when he realized that the requested answer was not immediately forthcoming. "Well?"  
  
Morton looked slightly uncomfortable. "There was an incident in the Missile Room."  
  
"When?"  
  
"At 0730 hours."  
  
Crane glanced at the reticent XO sharply. "What kind of incident, Chip?"  
  
"Tomàs and Clarke -the two technicians that you took on shore party," Morton said with a slight edge to his voice. "Nothing major -or, at least, I broke it up before it went too far. Just fisticuffs...general profanities -that sort of thing. I had them confined to the Brig for the duration of the cruise home."  
  
Crane shook his head in exasperation, silently disgusted and amazed that even at times like this, under circumstances such as the present ones, that there was almost always someone who could find the time to get into some kind of trouble. "I don't get it," Crane said and set aside the cooling cup of coffee. "As far as I knew, Roberto Tomàs and Peter Clarke are the best of friends ...what could have caused it?"  
  
"Hard to say. Religion, the weather, a full moon -a disagreement over who's more maco for all I know. Probably nothing at all ultimately. Even they didn't seem to know what they had been fighting about after it was all over." Morton spread his hands in a familiar gesture of defeat and frustration. "Could be nerves. Since the completion of the last reconnaissance mission, there's been this air of...tension all over the ship."  
  
"I know what you mean, Chip," Crane agreed reluctantly, staring again at the dark waters beyond Seaview's massive viewing ports as if the deep might offer up the secrets known only to it. His nerves weren't as steady as they should have been -he had been sleepwalking, something he hadn't done since he had been a very small child. Somehow, in the middle of the night, he had turned off his lamp and had put away a book he remembered falling asleep reading. While he rarely slept deeply, he did not remember sleeping quite so restlessly for a long time. Crane faced Morton who stood waiting with unease. "We're not trained to accept or like unanswered questions, but this time..." He grimaced at the very idea. "We may have no choice in the matter."  
  
Morton accepted his captain's logic with an equally reluctant tilt of his head. "Aye, sir...you may be right. Shall I set course to Voyageur?"  
  
Crane winced inwardly at the thought that his men would have to endure the sights he had seen first hand as they would enter that underwater tomb to off-load Voyageur's nuclear arsenal -they had all the codes, the permission from the Canadian government, but those facts would make the task no more pleasant. It had already been determined that the Voyageur would be the grave of the men she had carried. "You might as-"  
  
"Sirs?" At that moment, a new voice interrupted the hushed proceedings and both officers turned to see the stocky figure of the Seaview's chief-of-the-boat bounding into the Observation Nose. "Beggin' your pardons, sirs," Sharkey said with almost comical sincerity as he made his way to where the two officers stood, a small scrap of paper clenched in his hand. "I'm sorry t' interrupt-"  
  
"You weren't interrupting, Chief," Crane countered with a small smile.  
  
"Aye, sir. Thank you, sir," Chief Sharkey said, a little out of breath. He extended his hand, proffering the slip of paper. "Sparks just received a FLASH from InterAllied Command."  
  
Crane glanced at the small sheet of paper which was simply a print-out bearing a code that meant that not only was acknowledgment important, it was imperative. "How can this be..." Crane said to no-one in particular. "They were the ones who ordered us to be on radio-silence."  
  
"Yes, sir," the Chief concurred very gravely, "but this comes from the Top; the Fleet Commander."  
  
"I can see that, Chief," Crane replied a little tersely, and then, seeing the wince on Sharkey's face, relented a little, acknowledging with a wry grin. "Thank you, Chief. I'll take it at the Radio Shack."  
  
"Aye, sir!" Sharkey responded smartly, beaming.  
  
At the Radio Shack, Communications' Officer Sparks nervously drummed his fingers on the metallic edge of the radio console, waiting and staring at the button which signaled incoming messages. Though it might have been his imagination playing tricks on his senses, the longer he was obligated to wait, the more certain he became that the repetitive flash of the indicator was growing steadily more insistent that it be answered. But InterAllied Command or not, it would have to wait...even if the waiting increased the chances of his developing an ulcer at this point in his young life exponentially with each minute that passed.  
  
"Sparks!" Sparks exhaled with profound relief as Captain Crane, trailed by Commander Morton and Chief Sharkey, approached the Radio Shack. "You can start transmission now."  
  
"Aye, sir..." The Communications' Officer said smartly and nodded in the affirmative (still quietly relieved to be free to act) as he quickly stabbed the flashing button which pulsed once more and then stayed a neon green. "Seaview to InterAllied Command ... Captain Crane is ready to receive." There was a pause, a long silence, and then, the console began a familiar symphony of clicks and whirrs as a white sheet embossed with an unintelligible convolution of letters emerged from the thin slot and then stopped with an abrupt snap. Crane removed the print-out sheet with a sharp jerk and winced despite himself -the facsimile paper always took too long to cool- and glanced at the coded message, eyes widening with recognition of a code he remembered almost by heart and because he knew exactly what was printed on the page. God...he understood all of it. "Christ..." he muttered at last, disgusted. Crane canted his head in Sparks' direction. "Extend my compliments and end transmission, Sparks."  
  
"Aye, sir," Sparks replied uncertainly, puzzled by the troubled expression on his captain's face.  
  
Morton glanced uneasily at Sharkey who returned the look questioningly, hunching his shoulders as Crane continued to read and then re-read the classified transmission. "Chief!" Crane snapped abruptly. "Take this to the Admiral."  
  
A brief frown of bewilderment passed over the Chief's rough face as he accepted the folded page. "Aye, sir."  
  
Morton watched the Chief disappear up the spiral metal staircase that led from the Control Room to Officers' Country above. "Lee..." Morton said aside in a low whisper as he drew up to where Crane stood. "What is it?"  
  
Crane gestured in the direction of the metal staircase and to Officer's Country beyond it. "The Admiral's not going to like this one. Emergency transmission from InterAllied -by orders of Fleet Commander Carter James Thomas, we are to retrieve any useful human evidence of either the Phoenix Project or Project M.I.N.A....and we are forbidden to conduct any intrusive investigations of any bodies. No autopsies -InterAllied wants 'em. " Crane shook his head slightly. "I can't believe any of this..."  
  
Morton drew a sharp breath, grotesque images of what he had seen on the Voyageur flashing before his mind's eye -there was nothing to retrieve. Nothing. "A little late, aren't they?" he said finally.  
  
At first, Crane's answer was silence and then, a small nod. "Just get us ready to get underway."   
  
There was no more to be said.  
  
  
  
"Damned glasses..."  
  
Admiral Nelson grumbled, a multitude of dark thoughts and even darker sentiments brewing beneath his furrowed brow. He yanked the sliding pair of glasses from his nose and whipped out a neatly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket, unfolding it as he squinted through one thin lens and then, the other, holding the reading specs up to the light of his desk lamp, before taking his unfolded handkerchief and attempting the nearly impossible task of keeping these overly expensive spectacles clean...and free of the smudges that seemed to have appeared from nowhere at all. His eyes were getting tired despite the fact the glasses were supposed to help him avoid such discomfort -but he wasn't all that surprised.  
  
After having woken from a nightmare of hellish proportions during the very early hours of the morning, he had somehow failed to go back to bed, electing instead to pore through the voluminous satchel of notes that had once, apparently, belonged to Captain Hudson of the Voyageur. That had been five hours ago...and despite his grim determination of the wee hours to make some headway through and some sense of Hudson's journals and notes, he was steadily growing weary of the task he had set for himself.  
  
The huge admiral's desk was all but bowing under the weight of the mountain of papers -loose notes mostly- that he had heaped upon it. Few of the papers made any real sense to him because Hudson's curious short-hand scrawl had reduced them to something akin to the curious hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt.   
  
Nelson picked up two battered leather-bound journals -these were probably the safest bet he had to discovering the reason for the final fate of Voyageur and Station Delta; the lone survivor of both, still incapacitated. Doc had said that it was difficult to know exactly when the young junior grade lieutenant would awaken from his catatonic stupor...or "if". InterAllied would want something to chew on as soon as Seaview touched port...if not sooner. Nelson rubbed his eyes. Would that there was a Rosetta Stone for personal scrawl.  
  
The still slightly smudged reading glasses fell from Nelson's hand onto a pile of written notes, sending several pages fluttering to the deck as he watched for a moment in bored fascination. He had just stooped to retrieve the errant notes when he heard a sharp rap at the door to his cabin. "Come."  
  
The cabin door crept open to admit Chief Sharkey who stood there for a moment, a folded sheet of paper in his hand. "The Skipper wanted me to give you this, sir," he said, casting a surreptitious glance at the unusual scene of disorder heaped upon the Admiral's desk -and on the floor. "Top priority -from InterAllied."  
  
"InterAllied?" Nelson questioned as he accepted the missive. "Who the blazes ordered the break in radio-silence?"  
  
"Fleet Commander Carter James Thomas, sir," Sharkey replied evenly. "I recognized his signature code."   
  
"I see." Nelson unfolded the coded transmission, taking in the contents of the message in a glance...and like Crane before him, reacted with undisguised disgust. There was some logic in the order, but... "Like vultures circling a carcass..." he muttered.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Nelson uttered a tiny, wry laugh. "Nothing, Francis...just military politics at work." He slumped down into his seat and gestured to the mounds of undeciphered papers. "I just...I just hope that these aren't merely the result of more of the same."  
  
Sharkey's brow furrowed with a frown of concern. Despite the fact that Nelson was a flag officer and he, an ordinary N.C.O., he considered himself and the Admiral friends -it troubled him to see the Admiral so obviously overwhelmed. "Is there...is there anything I can do t' help, sir?"  
  
Nelson shook his head wearily, peering through the glasses that he could no longer be bothered to hide. "Not unless you're an expert at reading civilian short-hand, Chief."  
  
"Actually, sir, I am."  
  
Nelson's countenance went blank with incredulity. He sharply swiveled his chair around so that he could look Sharkey directly in the eye. "Where did you learn short-hand, Francis?"  
  
"In...high school, sir," Sharkey responded meekly with embarrassment as a reddish tinge flushed his rough visage.  
  
A tiny smile of disbelief twitched at the corners of Nelson's mouth. "I thought that your high school major was 'cooking'."  
  
"That is the case, sir. I..." Sharkey swallowed deeply, half-wishing that the deck beneath his feet would open up and swallow him whole. Right now. "I...had this crush on the teacher of the Secretarial Skills' course -a real sweetie called Miss Mary-Margaret O'Rourke...and besides, I needed the extra credit to make up for my lack of straight A's."  
  
A short burst of laughter escaped from Nelson's mouth unbidden. He couldn't help it -and he wasn't certain whether it was the utter hilarity of his chief petty officer's pained expression or a simple sense of relief on his own part, but he was suddenly very glad that Sharkey had walked in when he had despite the message that he had carried. "Sit here, Chief," Nelson said, indicating the chair across from his own. "We have a lot of work ahead of us."  
  
  
  
  
"Course laid in, sir!"  
  
Crane acknowledged Commander Morton's report with a curt tilt of his head as he stepped down from the periscope island. "Down 'scope!" At his command, the heavy, metallic column lowered into its resting recess with the familiar soft hum of turning gears, all moving in their pre-programmed rhythm, and stopped. There hadn't been anything to see but the slightly shifting blackness of the waters that surrounded Seaview. But routine had its place, and even when seemingly pointless, it could be of some comfort.  
  
He would be glad to leave this place.  
  
  
  
  
"This is 'Greg', sir. Definitely 'Greg'."  
  
Nelson studied Chief Sharkey with a puzzled frown. "What do you mean -'Greg'?"  
  
"Oh..." the Chief said, looking up from the untidy pile of papers heaped before him, a smile that he hoped did not appear too smug on his lips. There were precious few areas of knowledge in which he could consider himself Nelson's superior and despite himself, some small part of him relished the switch in positions. "The short-hand style, sir," he said by way of explanation, indicating the handwritten scrawl. "The penmanship sucks big-time, but you can still tell. Long and short strokes indicate 'Greg' style short-hand. Thick and thin strokes indicate 'Pitman' style short-hand. This is 'Greg'."  
  
"Uh...huh..." Nelson murmured, "but can you read it, Chief?"  
  
"Oh, sure, Admiral," Sharkey replied, drawing himself up proudly. "Only...what exactly should I be lookin' for?" He flipped the creased papers that he held in his hands, shaking his head slightly and then, looked up to meet the Admiral's stern gaze. Sharkey glanced again at the sloppy scrawl. "So far, all I've seen are routine reports..." He held up one sheet. "This one's a grocery list."  
  
"There must be something in there, Chief," Nelson said, slowly massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers. "I know it. The Delta shore party found a partial list -a computer print-out listing some sort of medical results- and there may be more like it among these piles." Nelson looked to his side and retrieved one of the battered journals. "As far as I can tell, this is a personal log -it isn't an official naval journal...perhaps Captain Hudson wrote something we can use in here." The Admiral caught the Chief Petty Officer's slight frown of uncertainty and added: "So far, this may be our best bet -we have to try."  
  
Sharkey nodded slowly, not entirely convinced, but willing to try if only for the Admiral's sake...and, perhaps, for the fellow submariners who had died so violently. He took the battered book in hand as Nelson rose from his seat, still massaging the painful pulse in his temples. The pages, crinkled and still curiously cold despite having been subjected to a decontamination process, turned stiffly, threatening, despite his deliberate care, to snap from the cracked glue of the log's spine. For several minutes, there was only the sound of the turning of stiff pages and the low-key mechanical hum that throbbed throughout the submarine as Seaview's powerful nuclear power-driven engines were brought to bear as the ship was made ready to get underway for the cruise that would bring her to her rendezvous and home. "It's a personal log, all right," the Chief said, his voice low and slightly distracted. His eyes did not leave the pages as he scanned them. "Observations and the like...some mention of the Voyageur's skipper being royally ticked off at the director of the Phoenix Project for not making regular reports as promised..."  
  
"Reports?"  
  
"Supply reports...just some minor discrepancies between what the station ordered, what had been used, an' what they had." Sharkey shrugged. "Nothin' strange, really."  
  
"But anything unusual?" Nelson persisted, still hopeful.  
  
"No, sir... According to this, the Voyageur was assigned through InterAllied to offer technical assistance to Station Delta plus the transportation of necessary supplies as needed -a 'milk-run' their skipper called it. Just general observations..." A page snapped from the cracked spine as Sharkey turned it, releasing an odd, musty odor. "Damn..." Sharkey cursed under his breath, muttering softly as blood welled up from the tiny paper-cut on his thumb. He automatically sucked on the bleeding digit, marveling silently at how such an insignificant wound could cause so much pain as he propped the journal on his knee, turning the pages awkwardly with his uninjured hand, some of the sheets stained and oddly sticky with some kind of drying brown matter that- The Chief Petty Officer's thick eyebrows knit together, his small injury forgotten as he tried to turn the next page, but found that the sheet would not be moved. He picked at the page's edge, but it was as if it and the pages thereafter were one solid mass bound by some sort of fixative to the back cover itself. "Sir..." he said finally. "You might want to have a look at this."  
  
Nelson, alerted by the strange note of agitation in Sharkey's voice, set aside the creased document in his hand and stepped over to where Sharkey sat puzzling over his strange discovery before he noticed his admiral's arrival and handed over the damaged tome. Nelson took the journal, examining it visually and then, began to run his fingers along the half-inch thick section of solidly fused pages.  
  
"Hand me that letter opener, would you, Chief?" Sharkey searched through the piles for the letter opener which his admiral could obviously see easily, but he could not. He finally found the object of his search and handed it to the Admiral, watching, perplexed, as Nelson worked the fine blade of the silver-handled letter opener between the hard cover and the fused sheets. There was a sharp pop and the leather binding came away from what was now revealed as a fake section to the log; a small hollowed-out hiding place for the incongruous thin parcel that he found there.  
  
Sharkey watched as the Admiral unfolded the plain paper wrapping to reveal- "Micro video diskettes?" Sharkey said, bewildered.  
  
Nelson nodded silently. There were three micro video diskettes in all; each no larger or thicker than a credit card, and with them, a sheet of note paper folded several times over to fit into the small recess. Nelson unfolded the missive -this one, he noted with grim satisfaction, was written in ordinary long-hand -short and simple though the writing itself was shaky and the penmanship truly poor as if the hand that had scribed it had been anything but steady.  
  
Nelson read it aloud. "'While I still have the presence of mind to think sanely and remember what must be remembered, and the ability to write at all, I must pen this warning to whomever might be unfortunate enough to actually arrive at Station Delta and read it. I hope that the warning beacon that I will release will be enough, but I somehow fear that it will not. I don't know how long I have left before I myself succumb to the disease sweeping us, but I do know that they will find me soon enough. Taken by this hideous disease or taken by them -not much of a choice, is it?  
  
"'My past suspicions seem to have proven correct...no -more than that- I know now that the personnel at Delta haven't been truthful either to me and my crew -or to InterAllied about their dealings here. I wrote about this before -I know- but my official log has gone missing and I realized a long time ago that I have been under suspicion and watched. I also don't know how many of us are actually infected and just how many want to keep the truth hidden.  
  
"'Twelve days ago, two days after the official report I sent to InterAllied and my subsequent permission to investigate further, there was an explosion in Section "G" of the station -in the main generator room. The back-ups were not touched, but the explosion was enough to ignite some of the explosive compounds being transferred to the main unstable compounds' storage area. A resultant series of secondary explosions occurred, killing the five staff members involved in the actual transfer as well as breaching an extreme-high-security pathogen-containment area -this caused twelve storage units of an element -perhaps a virus- to rupture or burst -the resultant dispersal radius of this element was enormous. The element was in the labs where the Phoenix Project tests were being performed. As far as I was informed, the Phoenix Project was supposed to create a preventative vaccine for cancer, but I soon learned from the assistant director of the project, Dr. Mill Bagmen, that the Phoenix Project had been given up long ago when the Delta team had decided upon a more aggressive tactic.  
  
"'They called the unauthorized project: Project Metastatic Infectious Neural Anlage or  
Project M.I.N.A. for short. They had decided that instead of seeking to cure a disease which had every chance of returning no matter what cure was created, that they would create something that would render humankind itself incapable of becoming ill at all -a new kind of human, created by a virus that would reprogram the D.N.A.; an entirely new lifeform. But what actually resulted and has been released onto all of us is far worse than any cancer and I, like most of the Delta team and my crew as well, am infected...'"  
  
Nelson paused, his countenance blank with disbelief. Sharkey mirrored his expression. Antarctic Station Delta had given up medicine...for the genetic engineering of humans.  
  
  
  
  
  
"What the Hell is this..."  
  
Stu Riley glanced up from his station at the hydrophone to see Kowalski hunched over the sonar board, his face clouded with annoyance. "'Ski?" Riley whispered, glancing to make certain that there were no prying eyes or ears. "You got something?"  
  
"I'm not sure..." Kowalski glared at the sonar screen which pinged in its constant rhythm, indicating the presence of...nothing. He gave the unit a thump with his hand as if the effort would make a difference in what he saw...or didn't see, but nothing changed. This thing is a piece of junk..."  
  
"What's wrong with it?" Riley asked as he nudged his earphone aside. "I don't see anything."  
  
"That's just it..." Kowalski sighed heavily. "But I could have sworn I just had multiple contacts...or something like that."  
  
"There's nothing there now."  
  
"I can see that...but it was the weirdest signal...lasted for maybe a second or two...and I did see it..." The seaman shook his head with frustration and offered Riley a half-hearted smile. "Just gremlins, I guess."  
  
"For sure," Riley observed sagely. "That unit's, like, due for an overhaul."  
  
Kowalski cast Riley a questioning look. "Overhaul? Stu, this thing's ultra-cutting edge -you don't overhaul a thing like that."  
  
"So?" Riley replied with a slight shrug, lightly noting his partner's sudden change of opinion on the supposedly oddly behaving piece of hardware. "What else would you do with it? Anyway, they'll take care of it when we get back to base."  
  
"Yeah...that's true..." Kowalski stared at the innocent-seeming piece of equipment and scowled in defeat. "They'll take care of it. No problems."  
  
  
  
  
"Genetic engineering, sir? On humans! That's been officially against international law for how long I don't know!"  
  
Admiral Nelson took in Chief Sharkey's naïve outburst with a thin, cynical smile. "I know," he said, the tentative smile twisting into a scowl as he returned his gaze to the page he still held, the paper deeply creased in a criss-crossing of straight indentation lines by the way that it had been deliberately and yet, awkwardly folded. The scrawl, as the message went along, grew progressively worse -from poor to all but illegible. Nelson squinted at the spidery script -his glasses didn't help- reading aloud from what had to have been the last words of a dead man.  
  
"'Even as I write this, I realize that it's just self-deception to deny that some among us want to keep what has happened a secret even now -accidents could not have so conveniently destroyed the communications' systems on both my ship and the station within minutes of each other -only the auxiliary radio system in the far end of the station is functioning, but it's range is poor and I have yet to be able to reach it -I will try again nonetheless.  
  
"'I digress. It's hard to keep my thoughts in a logical line -sometimes, I forget myself. Suffice it to say, there was a group of victims deliberately infected before us -a voluntary test group...and their sacrifice was a fatal one as this mutant pathogen killed them one after the other. After death, their bodies were incinerated in secret -this happened sometime before my crew and I were assigned here. I wish I knew what possessed the science team to keep working on their forbidden project -it should have stopped there, but it didn't obviously. Dr. Bagmen gave me this information not long before she, too, succumbed to the effects of the disease. I don't know why. Perhaps a last cleansing of the soul. The three disks she was able to get to me will bear me out. They will explain better than I can -it's getting hard to think again. There's too much noise outside of this prison/hiding place.  
  
"'I know that the part of my crew that were still at Delta when things really turned for the worst are dead -but I still hear them. They're looking for me even now, so angry that I let them die like they did. They're thirsty...so very thirsty for blood, for life, and for the rest I can't give them even though I've tried.'" The Admiral and the Chief regarded each other, an unspoken sorrow at the obviously deteriorating sanity of the writer on their silent lips. Through the Admiral, Captain Hudson spoke again. "'I can't give my men rest, but I can release them in the only way I know how. With help from the few with mind enough to help, I have been able to fashion a series of plasma-burst bombs.  
  
"'Eight have been placed at various locations through-out the base. After learning that the survivors of my crew had decided on escape -I cannot find it within myself to blame them- I had four units placed on the Voyageur -Lt. Commander St. Baptiste has agreed to detonate them before they can reach land. Divers have attached two units below the land mass near the submarine pen. I can only pray that the materials I used are stable enough to work as they must. I pray God that I have created enough power to kill us all. There's no longer any choice. It stops here. It goes no further.'"  
  
Nelson's brow creased all the more as the faint echo of a memory rang in the back of his mind; similar words he remembered being spoken from where or when he knew not.  
  
Captain Hudson's final words were clearer. "'May God forgive me."  
  
  
  
  
"All ahead two thirds!"  
  
"All ahead two thirds, aye!"  
  
In response to Captain Crane's sharply barked order, the soft throbbing mechanical hum of Seaview's engines rose in pitch and volume as the great silver-grey submersible began a wide, arcing turn, massive propellers pushing against the black ocean water as she traveled around the narrow column attached to the craggy underside of the land mass on which what was left of Station Delta was situated, the light of Seaview's nose lamp vaguely cutting through the murkiness and glinting off the twisted, scorched steel structure that had once been the umbilical underwater entrance from submarine to station.  
  
Seaview was ultimately just a machine despite the men and memories housed within her -everyone on board knew that- but as she cut through the blackness, her double titanium-steel alloy hull equaling the press of the tons of pressure around her, the ship herself moved ahead as if eager to be home -as eager as he was, Crane thought with an uneasy shudder. Foolishness, of course, he countered silently as he studied the plotting chart before him, but he felt it nonetheless. Unanswered questions still plagued his mind; a disquieting maelstrom that had denied him both a truly restful night's sleep and the ability to eat his breakfast as Spartan a meal as it had been. He would be very glad to be in the familiar waters off of Santa Barbara.  
  
Crane glanced over his shoulder towards Lieutenant O'Brien who waited tensely at his station. "Mr. O'Brien!"  
  
The dark-haired lieutenant came to stiff attention. "Yes, sir!"  
  
"As of 1100 hours, this area is officially declared an ecological 'dead-zone'," Crane stated, confirming the hour with a quick second glance at his watch. "Eject the electronic beacon to mark the surrounding-"  
  
"Sir!"  
  
Crane stopped in mid-sentence, interrupted by the highly agitated voice of Kowalski who sat hunched over his sonar board, his visage pale despite the green glow of the rapidly pulsing screen. Crane crossed the distance between them, his young countenance indignant, but just as suddenly clouded by puzzlement as he saw what Kowalski saw. "What is this!" he demanded, gesturing sharply to the screen with his hand.  
  
"I don't know, sir!" Kowalski quickly attempted to adjust the oddly performing instrument, but the readings remained the same. "I thought it was some sort of glitch, but it isn't. It reads like multiple contacts, but then it doesn't!"  
  
"Fathometer!" Crane snapped.  
  
"Nothing, sir!" Patterson responded, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. He stabbed several buttons at his own console and tried various dials as the screen before him began to crackle, the images suddenly clouded by electronic snow. "Sir! Fathometer just went dead!"  
  
"Hydrophone!"  
  
Riley, prodded by the harshly barked command of his captain, anxiously tried his own instruments and recoiled, grimacing in pain as he clutched at the headset covering his ear. "Sir! I-I don't know what I'm hearing, but it isn't any kind of ship!"  
  
"Sparks!" Crane snapped, his voice lashing out like a whip. "Pipe hydrophone signal through the main speaker!"  
  
Suddenly, a high-pitched electronic screech pierced the air through the speaker system. It was much like the sound of sharp fingernails being dragged across a giant blackboard, and yet much, much worse. It grew louder, highs and lows resounding off the curved bulkhead, until the screaming electronic row became a symphony.  
  
As crewmen clamped their hands over their ears, agonized by the intolerable sound, instrumentation boards began to short, spark and suddenly burst into flame. "Cut it off!" Crane shouted, all but despairing to be heard over the wail.  
  
"I can't!" Sparks shouted back. "Energy pulse -it's overriding everything!"  
  
"Energy pulse...plasma-burst-" Crane's mouth worked silently and his eyes widened with horror -suddenly, he knew. "Get us out of here! Flank speed-"  
  
It was too late.  
  
The explosion was silence itself -a soundless all-consuming nova of white light that seemed to envelope the ship, blanching the dark waters around her...and then, the thunder came.  
  
All at once, Seaview was hurled like the toy of an angry child by the power and force of the growing, blinding eruption as it reached, consuming, the water literally vaporizing at the point of its genesis. On board, men were hurled from side to side; flames leaping from consoles, cracks appearing in metal struts as the battered submersible violently pitched and yawed. Some struggled to right the reeling ship as others fought to give the instructions -but few could hear the orders let alone give them as Seaview tumbled away from the horrible, consuming submarinal conflagration...downwards...rolling towards a void.  
  
Whether she was a living thing or not, Seaview's crew suddenly realized one awful truth  
-it was possible for a submarine to scream.  
  
  
  
5  
  
  
  
...  
  
...blackness...  
  
It was an emptiness utterly devoid of light...and life. Absolute. Empty. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. He was...nothing. Alone in a place that did not exist.  
  
...  
  
Was this death?  
  
Possibly...didn't know. He didn't know...anything. Just then -something. Somewhere in the endless nothing, there was...something. A sound. A soft distant whispering that seemed to be coming closer...gradually louder. "...ral...mral...miral...admiral... Admiral? ...Admiral!"  
  
A stabbing pain sundered the darkness; a bolt of lightning in the lightless night. Admiral Nelson fought against the weights on his eyelids, forcing them partly open as he slowly turned his head towards the still somehow vague, distant voice. A sharp hiss escaped his mouth as a blinding pain twisted at the back of his skull, radiating down his neck, the slightest movement causing the awful discomfort to echo off every muscle in his body.  
  
Somehow, in the foggy haze that shrouded his confused senses, Nelson felt a hand (his own?) gingerly touch the throbbing center of pain that pulsed at the back of his head and was sluggishly aware that the hand had come away wet and sticky with blood.  
  
"What was that, sir?"  
  
Nelson struggled to focus the blurred image before his eyes. "I said: 'Would someone please shut down the jackhammer in my head?'" The Admiral blinked rapidly, eyes slowly clearing, and took in his surroundings with a start. Recognition filtered into Nelson's brain -he was lying flat on his back in his cabin...or what had once been his cabin. There was a saying...it rang through his mind vaguely...something about a room being such a mess that it looked like a bomb had hit it. It was an apt description of his quarters right now.  
  
The papers that Nelson had been studying were strewn all over the deck, scattered anywhere but on his desk which was now lying on its side; the globe-lamp was also lying there, its glass shade smashed. The few pictures which decorated the bulkheads were now tilted at crazy angles -the mattress and blankets of his bunk hung half-off the box-springs in much the same way. Nelson pushed himself up by his hands, sitting with difficulty. "What happened?"  
  
Chief Sharkey shook his head in bewilderment as he rested on his haunches. A thin trickle of blood ran down the right side of his chin from a small bruised cut on the jaw. "I don't know exactly, sir. There...there was some kind of explosion. I think...I think Seaview's on the bottom."  
  
"On the bottom-" Nelson winced as he struggled to his feet, shakily grasping Sharkey by the arm. "How did we-" Some memory came...of a deafening thunder, the ship being battered about, a blinding pain as his head hit the hard deck...and then, nothing. Until now. The Admiral steadied himself, holding on to the edge of his overturned desk for support as a wave of vertigo swept over him, engulfing him in a grey vortex...but the moment did not last for very long though it seemed to take an eternity before equilibrium returned to his still addled senses. Nelson shrugged off the Chief's well-meaning attentions and staggered over to the wall mike which hung loosely from its metal cradle, its slight rocking motion causing it to bang slowly against the bulkhead. He took the handmike and clicked it, hesitating as the submersible gave an audible groan and the smooth deck beneath his feet appeared to list to one side before settling again.  
  
"Geeze..." Sharkey murmured, casting an anxious look around him as if he could see beyond the confines of the vessel into the ocean surrounding it. "I hope Seaview landed on something stable."  
  
Nelson inclined his head silently -he agreed. He clicked the handmike again. "Nelson to Control Room, what-" Nelson recoiled from the loud burst of high-pitched static that exploded from the hand-held communicator. "What the Devil is this?.." He tried the small unit again and was again met with the same cacophony of electronic noise.  
  
"What is it, sir?"  
  
Nelson wearily placed the mike back in its cradle, his eyes narrowing in concentration -which wasn't easy. His head was throbbing with the intensity of a migraine -movement hurt. Thought hurt even more...and somewhere in the pain-bedeviled recesses of his brain, the raucous clamor of Seaview's emergency klaxon reverberated over and over again...and beyond that, something else. The Admiral shook off the steadying hand of the deeply concerned chief petty officer who could only look on now in troubled wonder. "It makes sense..."  
  
"What makes sense, sir?"  
  
For the longest time, the Admiral did not speak, his lined brow furrowed, his mouth working silently as grim inspiration whispered at the back of his mind. He no longer heard the wailing of the ship's emergency klaxon, nor did he feel the throbbing pulse in his skull as he had only minutes ago. Sharkey's voice seemed to fade into the distance, merging with the muted buzz of the Admiral's thoughts. The late Captain Hudson had spoken of fourteen bombs -eight to destroy the station, four to sink his own ship, two to seal off the underwater entrance... Nelson glanced sharply at the Chief. "We only found evidence of one..."  
  
Sharkey's expression fell blank and he shook his head slowly. "One? One 'what'?" But Nelson was already heading towards the door to his cabin, new horror-induced adrenaline purging the lingering disorientation as he reached for the steel handle. Sharkey followed close behind, half-convinced that his admiral had slipped into some kind of delirium. "One what, sir!"  
  
Nelson flung the door open and even as he did, a billowing translucent cloud rolled into the cabin -the smell of it thick with char...a gagging, noxious stench that flowed from the darkly-lit corridor. Nelson grabbed an emergency breathing apparatus from a metal cabinet and slipped it over his nose and mouth as he tossed another to Sharkey. "Plasma-burst bombs! Captain Hudson said that two had been planted under the base. Two! Not one!" He swept a hand in front of his face, but the filthy mist closed in on itself almost immediately. "Seaview just found the other one."  
  
  
  
The weather had been good when he had awoken this morning -blue skies, sunshine...and warm. It had been the kind of warmth that numbed the senses and lulled one into personal oblivion -the siren's song of nature. That had been this morning.  
  
Things had changed since then. They were in for a storm -a big one by the looks of things. He knew it. The air surrounding him was thick, muggy -difficult to breathe. It was funny how the worst weather seemed to occur when the air was thick and hot. It was dark too. The sun shouldn't have set at such an early hour...not normally anyway. Yes, it was definitely going to be bad storm. Just then, he was staggered by a peel of thunder so loud that the ground beneath his feet literally shook and he stumbled, falling to his knees as warm rain began to patter against the skin of his face...  
  
Lee Crane's eyes flickered and then closed again. It took several minutes -he didn't know long exactly- before he could force the messages from his brain to his leaden limbs, and when he could, the reaction was slow...sluggish. He reached towards a small growing, stabbing pain near his left temple and touched the warm wetness that trailed down the side of his face, the hand shaking almost uncontrollably. He hissed sharply at the stinging discomfort as the flesh of his fingers touched the small deep wound there, and as his vision finally cleared enough to recognize what his eyes were telling him, he realized that the tips of his fingers were slick with the blood that continued to drip down the flesh of his cheek -his own blood.  
  
As more awareness filtered into his brain, he understood that the thunder he had heard in his brief delirium was the all too familiar sound of a wounded submarine roughly settling on the bottom -how far down, he didn't know- and the humid air was Seaview's recirculated atmosphere, clotted with a thin haze of acrid smoke.  
  
"Lee!"  
  
All at once, Crane felt himself pulled to his unsteady feet, strong hands supporting him as he rediscovered his center of gravity and looked up and found himself staring into the begrimed face of Chip Morton. "Chip..."  
  
The Executive Officer nodded hesitantly, blinking at the haze that had begun to sting his eyes, making them redden and tear. He studied his captain uncertainly, grimly noting the small, but ugly wound on Crane's head where he had been thrown against the periscope island. "I'm going to get you to Sick Bay," he said, reaching out again to his commanding officer who had all the sickly appearance of one who was about to faint.  
  
Crane drew back defensively. "Don't bother. It's just a cut -I'm fine."  
  
"But-"  
  
"I said that I'm fine!" Crane snapped, immediately regretting his tone of voice. He shook his head, dizziness reaching for him and then fading. "But maybe you had better go."  
  
Morton automatically covered the bloody, ragged hole in the sleeve of his uniform shirt with his hand. "It isn't my blood. One of the crewmen..."  
  
Crane followed Morton's train of vision, the sight of what he saw expunging the last of the torpor...a mound, human in shape, lay covered with a fire-retardant blanket -he understood, wishing that he didn't...but there was more. Seaview's Control Room was as close to being a total wreck as such could become and yet still function. A filthy haze from sparking and blazing control panels burned Crane's eyes and lungs; metal paneling hung, tangled in wires, from the bulkhead -scorched and warped; and crew, officers and seamen alike, were strewn about like limp rag dolls. Only a handful were lucid enough to begin to struggle to their feet.  
  
Crane grabbed Morton by the arm. "Chip -get the blower system activated. We have to clear this air!" The Executive Officer nodded sharply and ran to do as he was bidden. Crane coughed, clearing his lungs before he was able to speak again. "Fire detail! Get on those fires!"  
  
Kowalski, one of the first to successfully pull himself to his shaky feet, hobbled over to a fire extinguisher mounted on the bulkhead, almost tripping over the recumbent form of Stu Riley along the way. The seaman half-helped, half-dragged the bewildered strawberry-blonde crewman to his feet by the collar of his blue duty uniform, pressing the extinguisher into his hands. "Hit those flames!" Riley accepted the unit dumbly, at first not seeming to remember what it was or how to use it. Kowalski's voice grew sharp. "MOVE!" It was enough -Riley blinked as if suddenly woken from a trance and soon, the already polluted air was rank with the odor of compressed fire-retardant vapor, as Kowalski pressed other crewmen into service.  
  
Crane grabbed the handmike at the periscope island, clicking it rapidly. "Damage Control -report!" He grimaced as a high-pitched electronic whine burst from the mike. Crane pressed the button again. "Damage Control!"  
  
More electronic babble screamed from the unit and then, as if straining to be heard above the mechanical row: "Damage...-trol...-porting...Main transformer...burned out...hull damage...all the way through...to...The propellers might...possibly repair...Definite damage...in frames 90 through 111...shipping water...aft compart-...sealed off...Energy surge shorted out...most...control systems...likely propeller damage...Stand-by transformer...should soon...on-line...communications compromised..." There was a pause that didn't seem to have anything to do with the electronic interference. "We've...lost at...least...six men...sir..."  
  
Anguish etched itself into Crane's visage as he received the grim report, the pain of loss cutting as keenly as a sharp-edged knife. He stood frozen for a long moment, the mike in his hand, his eyes closed against the almost physical agony of the mind. A ship could be repaired, parts replaced, but a human life...when that was gone, it was gone for good. Knowing that such a possibility was part of the life to which he and his men had committed themselves willingly, made the loss no easier to bear. "All right," he said finally, "can you give me a repair-time estimate?"  
  
"Difficult...maybe three days...or as much as...week...more..." There was another pause -longer this time. Too long. "We can't move."  
  
"Damn..." Crane stared at the mike, a lump of cold metal and plastic in his hand, and slowly tilted his head in an acknowledgment that he knew the speaker on the other end of the line could not actually see. "Set a detail on it," he said, suddenly, indescribably drained. "I want specifics as soon as possible."  
  
"Aye...sir..."  
  
"Lee-" Crane turned in the direction of Morton's voice as he set aside the handmike. The Executive Officer's countenance was grim and he carried with him a white metal box with a bright red Caduceus emblazoned on it -a portable med-kit. Morton gestured towards a vacated watch station seat. "If you'll just sit here..."  
  
Crane automatically, uncomfortably, touched the small, throbbing wound near his temple and opened his mouth to protest...and then decided to remain silent as he sat down, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips as the pulse in his head, which had been jumping with every movement, finally settled down. He watched as corpsmen, some easily as battered and bewildered as most of the Control Room crew, entered Seaview's core and tended to those who could not tend to themselves -and there were more than a few of them. He realized then that he knew the identity of the mortally injured crewman whose body lay covered by the fire-retardant tarp...just a kid -a kid whose family he would have the duty of informing of his death; one of the few duties that could make him come close to questioning his acceptance of command.  
  
Morton had opened the white metal box and was removing a sealed vial of some evil-smelling antiseptic that made Crane wince just by the stench of it. Like all of Seaview's crew, the XO had some medical training -enough for the matter at hand to be sure. Besides which, Crane knew Morton well enough to know that the XO wanted to speak privately. "Jesus!"   
  
"Sorry, sir..." Morton cringed, drawing a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, as he carefully removed the blood-smeared antiseptic-soaked pad from the small bloody wound and visually examined the cut (and the ugly scowl forming on his captain's countenance) before disposing of the pad and retrieving another medical swab from the med-kit. "We have some initial damage reports on instrumentation," the Executive Officer said, whispering as he struggled with the seal on the air-tight sterile pouch. The package opened with a small pop, releasing a nauseating medicinal odor. "And it isn't good."  
  
Crane willed himself not to recoil from the strong-smelling pad as Morton placed it against the wound. Medicine or not, healing-salve or not, it stung like a son of a bitch. "Go on," Crane said finally, his own voice muted with the greatest effort as the XO continued the unpleasant work of sterilizing and dressing the wound.  
  
"Radio is out. I've got Sparks on it, but God only knows when he'll be able to get it functioning again. Could be hours...could be days."  
  
"Wouldn't do us any good anyway..." Crane muttered sourly under his breath and then privately chided himself for having spoken his mind out loud. This wasn't the time or place for such things -despite the fact that it was the truth nonetheless. They were on radio-silence -InterAllied would not be concerned over a lack of reports when there were none expected...and depending on the present bent of their officious fleet commander's mind, it was more than merely possible that no-one would be allowed to answer an S.O.S. were they able to send one...at least, not until the two weeks of absolute radio-silence had passed. Two weeks -it was quickly beginning to sound like a life time. "And..?"  
  
"Sonar's out...so are the hydrophone and fathometer...and we're too deep to use the periscope even if it does work -which, all things considering, I somehow doubt."  
  
Crane's eyes locked with those of the Executive Officer as he said in a low voice: "How deep?"  
  
Morton sighed heavily and paused in his efforts to pry open the stubborn package that contained a single synthetic-skin bandage. "One thousand feet...approximately. Maybe more." He carefully placed the bandage over the cut, effectively covering the injury. "That was the last reading we had before we hit the bottom."  
  
"Too deep for conventional divers..." Crane murmured as he slowly got to his feet, deep in thought.  
  
"Repairs could be made using those new deep-sea diving suits, but we only have twelve of those." Morton wiped his fingers with a medical cloth. "Repair details will have to go out there in rotating watches of maybe four to five hours each at the most -a snail's pace."  
  
"But better than nothing," Crane murmured, matching Morton's grim tone. "Air revitalization and reactors seem to be in good order...food stores are fully stocked -I suppose the situation could be far worse."  
  
Morton glanced at his captain uncertainly. "But the men..."  
  
"Keep them busy, Chip," Crane replied, understanding the inferred question immediately. The last thing that the crew needed was a lot of time to think too much -panic and mounting claustrophobia could do what whatever had hit them had not done. No... Seaview would not survive a panicked crew -especially not now. "I don't care what -work detail rotation...or maybe dig something out from the video library when they're off watch. Just keep 'em occupied."  
  
"But none of the video-library's old classic disaster films like 'The Poseidon Adventure'?"  
  
Crane shot Morton a look of aghast astonishment and then shook his head in grim amusement at the irony of the Executive Officer's apparently innocent query. "No. No disaster films."  
  
Morton nodded and closed the med-kit with a snap. "Lee..." he said quietly. "What hit us?"  
  
"I don't know, Chip -I'm just not sure..." Crane grimaced at the dull ache in his head. "But I suspect that it could have been a plasma-burst bomb hidden somewhere under the land mass."  
  
"A hidden bomb?" Morton shook his head with disbelief. "A...booby trap?"  
  
"Or a proximity bomb...or maybe just one that failed to go off the first time 'round. If it was a plasma-burst bomb, the core could have collapsed on itself and then expanded, exploding just as we got too close -the Admiral would know better than I." Crane clapped Morton on the shoulder. "Just carry on."  
  
Morton tilted his head slightly. "Aye, sir."  
  
Crane looked the way that the Executive Officer had departed and then headed towards the metal staircase that led up to A-Deck and Officer's Country, aware, even as he made his way along the slightly tilted deck, of sounds, very low in the background of his perceptions; of metal against metal -of steel beams straining against each other as the great grey submersible settled again. But on what? And where? He was loathed to admit that he could not be entirely certain whether Seaview was in fact settling...or sliding.  
  
The crash doors to the ship's nose were closed, cutting off the view through Seaview's viewing ports -and they would have to remain that way until the weakness or strength of the forward beams could be accurately determined. The external cameras had succumbed to whatever force had battered the ship herself. Seaview was not only crippled, she was blind.  
  
At that moment, a shudder ran through the entire length of Seaview's frame and the grim dark glow of emergency neons was replaced as the submersible's lighting array flared to its normal intensity -something Crane noticed only in passing. Fragments of grade-school lessons on the history of nuclear energy came to mind -something about how the deadly energies of an exploding nuclear bomb could disrupt most functioning electrical machinery that its destructive power did not actually touch. The blast had certainly been similar to that...but not the same. No...had that been the case, the entire ship would have been hot with radiation, but it wasn't. Radiation detectors were one of the few instrumentation arrays still working properly. The only other force that could have created the type of mayhem and destruction that Seaview had suffered (was suffering) was a plasma-burst bomb...of unusual power. The Admiral would probably have a clearer idea of what had struck the ship, but the question was...where was the Admiral?  
  
In all the confusion- Crane's brow creased as a surge of dread forced him to step back from the metal staircase -dread and the solid, immovable reality that the passageway between A-Deck and the Control Room was completely blocked. Steel struts and synthetic-plaster-covered lighting mounts covered the man-sized opening; fragments of glass and cork still slowly raining down on the metal steps, coating them in a rough, greying gravel that crunched loudly underfoot. Crane shook his head uncertainly -had the entire ceiling of A-Deck collapsed or... "Mr. O'Brien!"  
  
O'Brien, still shaky, still steadying himself against the railing of the periscope island, stared up, a vague, slightly bewildered cast to his face as he willed himself to stand up straight. "Sir..."  
  
"Get a work detail to free up the passageway between the Control Room and A-Deck!" Crane paused only momentarily. "And take the Conn!"  
  
"Aye-" Before the young lieutenant could actually voice a response, the Captain had swept past him, disappearing through the aft hatchway. He had never seen the man move so fast.  
  
  
  
  
"Keep holding it! We have to get the weight off his legs!"  
  
Sweat dripped down the sides of Admiral Nelson's grime-streaked face, his lips drawn tight and thin, his eyes narrowed in grimly intense concentration, as he stifled the cough that threatened to erupt from his aching lungs. The Seaview's blower system was running at full capacity -he recognized the tell-tale mechanical hum radiating throughout the ship- but crippled as he suspected she was, it was very unlikely that Seaview could reach the surface. It would take hours therefore, perhaps far longer, to entirely scrub the submarine of the dulling haze of smoke that still polluted her self-contained atmosphere. Divers' tanks and emergency breathing units were being held in reserve for necessary use only at this time -for the injured and others that had to have them- he did not know whether the air revitalization system was working at full capacity and if so...for how long.  
  
Yet, that thought, no matter how troubling, was nowhere near as immediate as what he faced right now. "Sir! This ain't budging and we can't hold on to it much longer!"  
  
Nelson barely heard Chief Sharkey's voice over the din of his own racing thoughts and the discordant sound of other human voices...and cries. He and his chief petty officer had yet to make it to the Control Room; their first obstruction, a caved-in section of the ceiling of A-Deck that had completely blocked off the passageway directly leading to Seaview's core; the second obstruction being of the more sobering human variety.  
  
Ensign Madison groaned in acute pain as his would-be rescuers were forced to release the huge unwieldy metal beam that pinned the young officer down to the deck by the lower legs. His face had blanched a sickly yellow; his eyes reduced to thin white slits as the Admiral, the Chief, and three seamen struggled to free him from the section of the ceiling and bulkhead that had collapsed, all but burying him there. Doc looked up, his visage haggard with anxiety, his thinning hair matted with sweat as he took the young officer's pulse and adjusted the brace around the man's neck. "Where is that laser torch!" he snapped through gritted teeth. "If we don't free this man soon, he won't make it to Sick Bay at all!"  
  
"I know that, Doc!" Nelson snapped back, casting a deeply worried glance at the trapped man. He had served as an unwilling witness to horrific incidents like this too many times and suspected that he knew what the junior officer was suffering. The crushing weight of the steel alloy girder was such that the rescue team had yet to be able to move it more than an inch...and time was quickly running out. Madison was dying before their eyes -the human body could endure only so much pain and Doc could give the man only so much morphine...without killing him. Help was on the way -Nelson did not doubt that- but in a ship with over a hundred men and God-only-knew how many areas damaged, help could come too late.  
  
"Doc..."  
  
At the sound of the stricken man's voice, Seaview's chief medical officer leaned closer, kneeling, his pants' legs stained by the growing pool of blood on the debris-strewn deck. "It'll be all right, Madison...the torch will be here soon."  
  
"My legs...take them..."  
  
A look of ill-concealed horror paled the medical man's face. "You don't know what you're saying."  
  
Madison's eyes fluttered as he struggled to focus on Doc, the effort draining him. "Take them!" he demanded, vision still unfocussed as his head fell back limply and he whispered, just barely: "Please..."  
  
Nelson met Doc's haunted eyes. "Can you do that, Doc?" he asked in a muted voice, hating the words as he said them. Seaview's doctor glanced unwillingly at his medical bag and nodded slowly. Yes, he could do it. Yes, he had the proper equipment here with him...and yes, the thought of doing what Madison had begged him to do -what he suspected that he would have to do eventually anyway- made him feel sick. All of this, Nelson could read in the medical officer's distraught expression. The Admiral's words were a mere whisper. "Then do it."  
  
"But, sir-"  
  
"You said yourself that he'll die if we don't free him now!" Nelson snapped, just as anguished. Doc opened his mouth to protest and then, merely sighed deeply, nodding in reluctant agreement as he slowly began to open his medical kit and signaled one of the crewmen to fetch some other instruments.  
  
"Sir..."  
  
Nelson turned and met the haunted face of Chief Sharkey. "Yes, Chief?"  
  
"Doc...he isn't actually going to cut off Ensign Madison's legs..." Sharkey asked incredulously. "...is he?"  
  
Nelson regarded the Chief Petty Officer sympathetically -he understood Sharkey's dismay. "There's no other-" The Admiral stopped in mid-sentence at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps from the opposite end of the corridor, expecting to see...hoping actually, the crewman-bearer of the laser torch that would help them to free Ensign Madison...and, perhaps, avoid the grim operation that the Seaview's medical officer was about to perform. Instead, the form of Captain Crane, looking no less haggard than himself, bounded up the corridor towards the waiting group and stopped suddenly as he mutely took in the dreadful scene being played out before him. The Captain didn't bother to ask what had happened -there was no point. He already knew. "Is it as bad as it looks?"  
  
"It is..." Nelson admitted ruefully. Doc was laying out surgical instruments and one of the crewmen had been sent to the Sick Bay to retrieve a respirator, gurney and other things needed ideally before the operation should start. Nelson turned aside with a small shudder. He had seen far worse things than what he would soon see, and his stomach was strong, but this was one of those things no sane human actually wanted to happen even if it was meant to save a life. He glanced to his side and saw the frown on Crane's brow, visible to his eyes though the Captain was apparently doing his best to mask it as he stared as if transfixed by the grisly tableau. "We can't wait any longer. Madison won't make it if we don't free him now."  
  
Crane nodded dumbly, his dark eyes troubled, as he continued to study the gory scene -the young junior officer trapped beneath the collapsed section of the bulkhead, pale and helpless, and dying as his life's fuel, his blood, pooled and spread on the deck...his blood... A sudden spate of visions of the frozen hell that Delta had become and the watery tomb that Voyageur now was fluttered briefly before the Captain's mental sight before he blinked, shattering the spell of an instant. There had been far too much death -if he could help it, there would be no more. Crane's brow creased as he strived within himself to reclaim memories of old instruction long since used and almost forgotten. "I think I can do it..."  
  
Nelson glanced at Sharkey who returned the puzzled look, and then back at Crane who stood staring with almost single-minded intensity at the weighty obstruction as he slowly flexed his fingers in silent anticipation of...what? "Do what, Lee?" Nelson demanded...but the answer did not seem to be forthcoming. It was as if the Captain of the Seaview either did not hear his admiral's query or was simply not listening as he studiously ran his long fingers along the jagged edges of the metallic mass...testing. More questioning looks were exchanged between Nelson and the crewmen gathered and the Admiral was on the verge of hotly demanding an explanation for the Commanding Officer's downright peculiar behavior when Crane regarded Nelson over his shoulder, his countenance all but expressionless, and said: "Just get ready to drag Madison out as soon as this thing moves."  
  
It shouldn't have happened...shouldn't have been possible, but somehow...it did happen. Drawing a deep, steeling breath, Crane grasped the edge of the huge mass, jaw clenched with the agonizing strain as he pulled upwards, sweat beginning to drip down the sides of his flushing face, the muscles of his arms and back trembling visibly with the increasingly terrible effort and growing pain, hands blistering and reddening against the bite of the still-hot recently scorched metal...which actually, slowly, began to move...up.  
  
The ragged structure of steel seemed to strain against itself as it was gradually forced from its former position, bits of synthetic plaster falling to the stained deck in a steady rain...and still, it went up. An inch...two...three... For a seeming eternity, no-one appeared able to move -the impossible sight rendering them immobile with something akin to awe...but like the fairy tale spell which would spend itself at the stroke of midnight, the apparent miracle had a definite time limit. Sweat streaming down his reddened temples, the tremor in his arms more pronounced, Crane was barely able to gasp out: "...hurry..."  
  
The response, this time, was immediate as Sharkey, Doc, and the other crewmen dragged and then lifted the helpless ensign from under the huge chunk of steel and plaster and onto the gurney which had just arrived.  
  
Almost immediately, the corridor was shaken by a thundering roar as metal, mouldings, and plaster came crashing down to the deck, sending a cloud of synthetic-based dust up into the already filthy air, leaving a pile of rubble where the young ensign had just been.  
  
Crane stared at the clutter, his face flushed, his chest still heaving from the exertion, knowing that what he had done would pass through loose lips until a simple act of focused will had been transformed into the likeness of a Biblical miracle -he was not unaware of his unsought-after status of legend- but such an act had a price. As he examined his reddened, blistered hands, pain like whips of electricity was already beginning to travel up and down his arms, back and shoulders. Yes... he would pay for this dearly...but he consoled himself with the fact that it had been worth it. At least, now Ensign Madison had a chance at a recovery that he might not have had only moments before -he had been able to give the man that much.  
  
"Lee..?"  
  
Crane felt the Admiral's hand on his shoulder and winced inwardly at the sharp pain that traveled from where the hand touched. "Yes, sir?"  
  
Nelson's train of vision went from the pile of rubble to the haggard face of the young commanding officer to the pile of rubble again in quick succession. "How..." he said, his voice small with wonder. "...how did you do that?"  
  
"Something...something I was taught in the Secret Forces...years ago. A martial arts technique...very old." Crane leaned heavily against the bulkhead for a moment, his head swimming, struggling to marshal his suddenly flagging strength. He felt Nelson's steadying hand against his arm as he waited with eyes closed for the transient weakness to fade. The moment passed and Crane faced his Admiral, a weary, grateful smile on his face. "Thank you...it-it takes a lot...out of me...makes it a fairly questionable technique at best... I haven't tried anything like that in a long time."  
  
"I didn't know that you could do it at all," Nelson replied honestly.  
  
"To concentrate and focus the entirety of one's physical strength into a single, powerful burst..." Crane laughed quietly, tiredly. "It's been a very long time -I didn't know if I could do it either."  
  
Nelson nodded, accepting the partial revelation -for now. As close as he and Crane were -as well as he believed he knew the man he had helped to train- he was coming to realize that he probably didn't really know Crane at all. He hadn't been the only influence in his life or his only teacher...and how could one really know another man anyway? But the questions could wait. Though the emergency klaxon had fallen mute and the sound of repair details had begun to echo through the corridors, the submarine needed him, needed them both. They were all far from out of danger. "Come on, Lee...let's see about getting this ship afloat."  
  
  
  
  
The water came from the faucet in a steaming torrent, a thick wet fog of condensation rolling upwards in a translucent haze, before disappearing down the seemingly endless well that was the drain, the clear hot liquid now sliding off his hands bearing a grimly familiar reddish hue, as it washed away the still sticky drying sanguine stains on the skin of his arms. "God..." Doc paused in his efforts, his lined face haggard and sallow with exhaustion, his head hanging down as he grasped the slightly slippery, long rim of the surgery ante-room's scrub-up basin, as a stronger wave of bone weariness swept over him, tempting the medical man to lie down and sleep...maybe forever. He sighed aloud and shook his head. No... None of that. He would rest...but later. Probably much later.  
  
The water continued to pour as he studiously examined the results of his efforts, noting with a slight grimace the sanguine stains that he had failed to exorcise from his flesh. It wasn't always like this. When he had chosen, a seeming eternity ago, to be a doctor -a physician, surgeon, diagnostician- he had gone into the medical field having reconciled himself to the fact that he would see sights that the average person would not and should not see...not the least of things being the blood. Having been born blessed with both a strong constitution and an even stronger stomach, he had never had to shy away from that fact. Never would. But it was never a pleasant thing, no matter how normal or natural, when that red flow carried away a life...as it had today.  
  
Whatever had struck the Seaview, it was taking its toll in one way or another on the crew as well as the ship. In the past seven hours -or was it longer- he and his surgical teams had seen more blood than in recent memory -from smaller cuts that had to be sutured, to greenstick fractures, to burns caused by boiling steam from broken hot water pipes or by fire, to injuries that were much, much worse. For a time, it seemed as if it wasn't going to stop -for seven solid hours, case after case came. Some lived and some...well...some didn't. The worst of it was that sometimes he had no idea why one man lived and the other didn't...crewmen that should have lived, had died. Men, far worse off, were still living. At least, for now...and there was always the blood... Too much. Too much of it shed today.  
  
It was all that he could see as he closed his eyes as he sat down, hoping that the lull after seven solid hours of performing surgery, that had at times proven pointless, signaled a lack of new cases. "Sir?"  
  
Corpsman Yamada stood waiting uneasily, his own younger face lined and grey, as the Chief Medical Officer opened his eyes and almost painfully pushed himself to his aching feet. "Yes, Yamada?"  
  
The young corpsman handed Doc a diagnostic print-out sheet and several X-rays. "X-ray systems have come on-line...at least, for now. They just brought in Yeoman Morley...looks like we have a trauma to the back of the skull...definitely some fluid build-up and internal bleeding."  
  
Doc nodded in grave silence as he scanned the sheet and then the ghostly black and white images that were the X-ray prints, one after the other. He shook his head slightly as he handed back the sheets. "Tell Surgical Detail #1 to scrub up." Yamada nodded sharply and disappeared through the doorway through which he had come as Doc shed his stained surgical smock in favor of a clean, sterile one.  
  
There was always the blood.  
  
  
  
  
"Coffee?"  
  
Lee Crane glanced up from the deeply creased print-out sheet he had been reading, a tiny frown furrowing his forehead, and tilted his brow in the affirmative as he pushed himself up from the partially slumped-over position into which he had somehow slid. Nelson was standing by an electric coffee pot hooked up to a small battery-generator outlet beside his desk. "Uh...yes, sir. No sugar-"  
  
"-no cream," Nelson said, finishing the instruction with a tiny worn smile twitching the corners of his mouth. "I do remember, Lee."  
  
A brief smile animated Crane's face as he caught the Admiral's knowing grin as he handed over the cup and took another over to where he had been working. But the grin that had gladdened Lee Crane's face faded almost as soon as he had returned his own attention to the object of his study, massaging the pulse in his head as he did. The papers crinkled loudly as he flattened out a folded-over corner of a page, shaking his head slowly as a sense of incredulous wonder washed over him at what he had been reading and had absorbed thus far...Captain Hudson's personal journal translated from personal script, the last testament of the late captain, other notes and entries...  
  
Crane cast a bleary-eyed glance at the ungainly pile of documents and notations heaped high in the middle of the top of the Admiral's desk; only about two-thirds actually of the writings that had somehow been stuffed into the satchel that had once belonged to Captain Hudson -some in the possession of Chief Sharkey who was ensconced in his quarters, doggedly trying to translate the remainder...a snail's pace, but it was the only option open to them all...the only way to corroborate what Captain Hudson's last testament had contained...to learn the source of the madness that had possessed a fellow InterAllied commander to leave what had essentially been a booby trap for whomever had arrived at Station Delta to offer help.  
  
Crane cast a look at the digital clock on the Admiral's desk. He was not an impatient man, but this search for the truth was taking far too long...and he was loathed to waste time -if that was what the search turned out to be. Crane set the papers aside and rubbed his eyes. Even if the search did bear no fruit, they had the time for it, didn't they? Seaview wasn't going anywhere -not right now anyway...and certainly not for awhile. The plasma-burst bomb had seen to that. Crane raised the steaming cup to his lips and sipped the hot brew, scowling at the sudden irrational surge of loathing he felt towards the late captain of the Voyageur and then slumped inwardly. Anger toward the dead was not only unsatisfying and stupid, it was pointless...and it didn't help. There were far more important things to deal with -such as getting Seaview afloat...and home. "Shit..."  
  
Over at the opposite end of the Admiral's cabin, Nelson looked out from behind the damaged video monitor that he had swung away from the bulkhead, a spaghetti-like tangle of wires held in his hand as he grappled with the contentious unit which had thus far proven to have no intention of working. "Is something the matter, Lee?"  
  
"No, sir," Crane murmured, a reddish tinge coloring his cheeks as he flicked away the stinging liquid he had spilled on his hand. Crane gingerly set the steaming cup back on the table to his side, cursing the clumsiness of his tender, blistered right hand. The Admiral nodded uncertainly and resumed his self-imposed task as Crane examined the bandage wound around the blistered hand -a minor injury hardly worth mentioning and yet, he had had less discomfort from greater wounds. It never made much sense.  
  
Suddenly, the Captain's attention was distracted by the loud, shrill sound of electronic hissing as the monitor screen flashed, crackled, and then flared to life. "You've done it," he observed aloud, getting to his feet as he retrieved one of the micro-video diskettes Sharkey and Nelson had discovered.  
  
"Not really..." Nelson shoved the monitor unit back into the recess within the bulkhead. "The energy pulse from the plasma-burst bomb fried most of the essential wiring -this is a patch-up job at best. It can't receive or transmit, but the video unit portion can play...and that's what is most important at the moment." Nelson made some quick adjustments to the unit and the screen went a video-ready blue. "We're just fortunate that the energy pulse has no effect on human energy fields."  
  
"I have to agree..." The protective sheath of the sliver-thin micro-video diskette glinted in the lamp light, the reflective, shimmering material of the plastic-alloy surface splitting the light's glow into a spectrum rainbow as Crane examined it visually and then, handed the diskette to Nelson who held the other two. "I hope that they're worth the effort."  
  
"So do I," Nelson agreed, his voice low and slightly distracted. The micro-video diskette was almost weightless in his hands, glittering sharply in all directions and at all angles save for the plain white stick-on tag that adhered to one corner -on that label, written in simple red marker ink, was a date. Nelson quickly examined each of the three diskettes, Crane looking on in silent puzzlement, as Nelson noted that each of the three video recordings bore a date; not consecutive, but all three apparently recorded within a period of two months. "The first two were recorded within three weeks of each other...but the other-" Nelson momentarily regarded Crane with mild incomprehension. "The other was dated just over a month later."  
  
Crane spread his hands, his expression openly questioning. "What's the answer?"  
  
"We'll soon see." The first micro-diskette disappeared into the entry slot of the video unit with a soft click and a familiar soft hum of electricity flowing throughout the partially restored unit. The monitor screen crackled momentarily and then, the screen was filled with the image of the official insignia of Antarctic Station Delta. Nelson and Crane shared a small sigh of relief.  
  
The insignia disappeared soon after and was replaced by the face and form of a man; greying and clean-shaven, perhaps in his latter fifties. His countenance was enigmatic, somewhere between suspicious of the camera he faced and yet, just as certainly, eager. He wore a standard-issue white lab coat, but the name printed on the security tag, pinned on the coat, indicated some authority: "Dr. Radu Ionescu", director of Antarctic Station Delta. The man glanced away from the camera and at some whispered insistence off-camera faced the screen again, a fleeting expression of discomfort at being obliged to appear before an unfamiliar or disquieting medium momentarily clouding his face. There was the slightest twitch of a smile on his mouth as he began to speak.  
  
"My greetings. My name is Dr. Radu Ionescu," he said, his voice slightly accented, "director of biological projects at Antarctic Station Delta and director of the Phoenix Project..." The nascent grin became a wide smile. "Or should I say, was the director of the Phoenix Project?" Dr. Ionescu leaned back in his seat, a new, almost giddy expression on his face before he bent forward, facing the camera again. "Forgive me...I am ahead of myself. I will explain.  
  
"For more than ten years, the science teams headed by myself and my assistant, Dr. Mill Bagmen, have been working on a possible preventative serum against the most deadly forms of cancer as based on our prior research into the disease...research which had provided 'treatment' for this sometimes hereditary molecular breakdown of biological tissue while not providing measures to avoid it...whether hereditary or acquired. Unfortunately, conventional tactics, as in the past, have proven, ultimately, fruitless...the enemy, as we had come to know it, had always had the potential for returning. After too many pointless experimentations under conventional guidelines, most of my staff and I eventually came to an epiphany and a collective, while admittedly unauthorized decision, was made to attempt the most obvious means of avoiding this hellish illness...perhaps all illness. Humanity has spent inordinate billions every year by creating new and improved weaponry and technology. We, the science corps and I, agreed that it was time to do something about improving the human species-"  
  
Dr. Ionescu's image froze mid-sentence as Admiral Nelson's thumb hovered over the "pause" button on the remote unit in his hand. "Lee...tell me that I didn't hear what I just heard."  
  
Lee Crane glanced at the screen and its frozen image and then, back at his admiral. "I wish I could."  
  
Admiral Nelson depressed the "pause" button and the static image jumped and then moved forward. "It is a scientific fact that traditional curative methods are, at best, questionable. The cure is often worse than the disease. Inoculations sometimes do not take at all...all because of the faulty nature of the human D.N.A., but human D.N.A. is little more than a biological computer program, and so, we hypothesized, could be...reprogrammed." Dr. Ionescu laughed quietly to himself. "The new project began three years ago. Borrowing from the simplistic theory of computer programming and far more in-depth genetics' research, some gleaned from other sources that need not be named at this time, we began to seek a...'virus' program that could make up for the natural deficiencies in human D.N.A. by flowing through the blood stream via a conventional injection on a viral carrier and attaching itself to the nervous system where actual reprogramming would begin -a most efficient method, I'm sure it would be agreed... The first real breakthrough occurred a year ago when serum batch #666 -trust me, I recognize the irony of the number- proved not only non-lethal to our test animals, but beneficial as well...for simplification, we called the batch 'V1'.  
  
"The test animals, common field mice, showed marked improvement in co-ordination, speed, strength, and over-all physical capacities...night vision, hearing, and yes, markedly improved immune and recuperative abilities. An unexpected side-benefit of decreased appetite has also been observed...as well as a definite increase in life span. This will undoubtedly prove useful." Dr. Ionescu paused, a fleeting frown appearing on his brow. "We did notice an increased tendency towards aggression and general irritability among the lab subjects, but this is to be expected among creatures of a lower order who lack our 'human' capacity to comprehend and accommodate a change in perceptions. Said test subjects were destroyed by incineration after requisite post mortem examinations." Doctor Ionescu sighed with personal satisfaction. "It was at 6:00 a.m., Tuesday morning, two days ago, that the newly re-named Phoenix Project truly became everything I could have hoped it would become. The first human volunteers were injected with the refined version of our Metastatic Infectious Neural Anlage. The results have proven promising beyond my wildest dreams. If all goes as expected, we will be able to present to the scientific community and the world in general, the first of an improved human species -Project M.I.N.A. is a success."  
  
  
  
  
He wondered if it was possible to be dead and not know it. The last few days -it was days, wasn't it- had been spent in a grey world of oblivion with no touch...sound...sight...and even less thought. No...he wasn't dead...as much as he might have wished to be. Fate wasn't that kind. Damn it.  
  
Corpsman Thibideau opened his eyes just a sliver; just enough to see through the veil of his eyelashes. He was laying on a hospital bed...no...not a hospital bed. A bunk. A Sick Bay roll-away bunk on...what..? Thibideau chanced a glance around himself, eyes scanning his surroundings with great care, while he remained perfectly still, feigning sleep. A submarine. It was definitely a submarine Sick Bay...similar to the one on Voyageur; somewhat larger perhaps, but not...no, it wasn't the Voyageur. Couldn't have been. Voyageur was... No! Thibideau swallowed deeply. Mustn't dwell on it. Ship and crew were dead -they couldn't be helped...and certainly not by guilt-addled mourning. Everyone dead...except... How was he still alive? And how did he get here? Wherever he was...what did it mean that he was still alive?  
  
Thibideau strained to see without being seen and caught sight of a map mounted on the Sick Bay's bulkhead not far from his bunk. Seaview...the S.S.R.N. Seaview! American... An American classified research submarinal warship. How did he get on board her? Just then, Thibideau closed his eyes sharply, willing himself to remain calm, neutral, and unmoving as he heard voices somewhere close by...a gaggle of American accents...he had never been able to fathom how his country's southward neighbors possessed so many...but that wasn't important at the moment. He heard someone called "Doc" speaking to someone, his captain (over the intercom by the sound of it), about casualties -fifteen dead, numerous crewmen injured. Thibideau felt a deep thrill of dread. The Sickness...but no, the deaths weren't because of the Sickness. An accident, terrible...the doctor wanted to perform autopsies -something about how some of the dead shouldn't have died -but he couldn't. Orders from InterAllied. Only blood work-ups and X-rays allowed under certain circumstances of which the corpsman could not quite make clear -nothing more until they got back to base...if they ever did.  
  
How could the American medical man know that it might be better if they never touched port? No...he couldn't know...and he didn't know how to tell them...or if to tell them. Thibideau sighed softly to himself, grey nothingness reaching for him again, and allowed himself to fall into oblivion.  
  
  
  
  
Crane released the button on the intercom on the Admiral's desk, his hand lingering there for a moment as his eyes met those of his admiral who returned the look pensively. "Doc sounded upset...and I can't say that I blame him. Those orders from InterAllied don't make much sense to me either."  
  
"The loss of fifteen good men would upset a hardened man...especially as we're not sure that the orders even cover our own fatalities." Nelson shrugged tiredly. "We'll just have to follow the present interpretation for the present." Doc had sounded angry -he was a man of deep emotions and to lose even one crew member was too much for him, for any of them, to accept easily, but if experience had taught Harriman Nelson anything, it was that one had to accept the fact that the human body bore the dichotomy of being both fragile and resilient at the same time. A seemingly insignificant wound could kill and a major injury could leave a man alive. He wished that Fate had chosen a far less grisly way to prove that point. "As for the rest, InterAllied must have a reason for their orders -it's our duty to follow them to the best of our ability. Doc will understand in time."  
  
"The higher echelons of InterAllied command wouldn't explain even if we could contact them," Crane muttered half to himself.  
  
Nelson caught sight of the scowl on Lee Crane's face and was forced to tilt his head in agreement. "Unfortunately true." He inserted the second tape into the video unit. "Tape two...three weeks after the first...or, at least, the first of which we know."  
  
As before, the image of the insignia of Antarctic Station Delta appeared on the screen, but unlike before, the image of Dr. Ionescu did not materialize. Instead, Nelson and Crane saw the form of a woman; handsome, mid-forties, with silver-stippled hair of jet black that was pulled up into a severe snood. Her name tag gave her name as "Dr. Mill Bagmen". But if her colleague, Dr. Ionescu, had worn the air of a scientist gradually swept up in the intoxication of discovery, Dr. Bagmen had the mien of one who labored under oppressive worry. As one looked closer, one could see the lines of care on her face and the barely controlled tremor in her hands as she struggled with a lighter whose wick flared and then died several times just short of the unlit end of the cigarette loosely perched between her lips.  
  
Finally, cigarette lit, she blew a blue-grey cloud of smoke into the air. "Video entry number 69...Friday..." Dr. Bagmen frowned, seeming to puzzle for several seconds before she spoke again. "Never mind the date -it doesn't matter. I'll write it on the tape later. I forget things so easily nowadays. Where was I? Ah yes... Human test subjects for Project M.I.N.A. -Professor Michael Jefferson and technician Rosa Micelli- died today...they were the last two of the ten human subjects given injections of the mutant engineered anlage we nick-named V1...under Project M.I.N.A.. The progression of the D.N.A.-altering virus introduced into their systems remained insidiously consistent with the progression suffered by the eight before them.   
  
"Initially promising results of improved ability and capacity did not last and deteriorated in the same way...we could do nothing to help them. As before, all efforts to re-introduce former normal healthy D.N.A. structures failed...just as all efforts to determine the reason why V1 itself changed have failed. The truth of the matter is that we are no longer certain what, exactly, we are working with -even in test animals, V1 is displaying an almost sentient capacity to defy accepted methods of curing viral infections -whatever we apply, V1 appears capable of 'learning' to survive... Whatever we have created is far more potent than the cancer we had hoped to avoid or cure, or even the AIDS virus of the latter twentieth-century...if it had been that, we would be able to cure it. How can the body react to or attack what it cannot accept exists...or what seems, at first, to be beneficial?"  
  
Dr. Bagmen drew a hand through the stray, wispy strand of salt and pepper hair that hung loosely over an earpiece of the old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses perched on her long nose. "They were once so very healthy... Even the outbreak of the Asian Flu, brought in by the crew of our previous supply ship -the Andropov, out of Russia- did not cause any major effect on the test group initially...any illness was negligible at best while the rest of us suffered. All subjects remained healthy and became almost impossibly healthier...increased physical strength, visual /auricular acuity -they developed night vision that was easily feline in its scope- increased digestive efficiency that required reduced food-bulk intake...and the afore mentioned immunity factor. My God...for a short while, they were superhuman.  
  
"How could we have known..." Dr. Bagmen drew on the cigarette, the lit-end burning brighter, before she blew another bluish cloud of smoke into the air and then dashed the burning tobacco stick against the scorched basin of the fifty-cent foil ash tray in front of her, her lips drawn tight with disgust...or anger. It was hard to tell which. "The rate of deterioration was different for each subject due to factors of which we know nothing...there was no one incubation period...but the process itself was predictable as it was in inexorable.  
  
"Improved vitality became frenzied strength...without direction. Increased sensory acuity led to sensory sensitivity so great that the subjects were eventually in nearly constant pain -a simple touch became agony, normal lighting was intolerable. There was eventual emotional collapse which displayed itself in various, mostly violent, ways. As their conditions deteriorated further, normal food intake became impossible. Intravenous transfusions of high-protein supplements -as well as transfusions of whole blood to combat what appeared to be an aggressive anemia-like condition- seemed to temporarily slow the progression of V1, but in the end, they could not stop it. Nothing could change the ultimately destructive end of the disease. One by one, they slipped into comas ...and died.  
  
"Tissue samples are being taken from the last two subjects as they have from the others. Blood samples will also be taken. Their bodies -also like the others- will be cremated to avoid any possible contamination -it's all we can do for our former co-workers. Dr. Ionescu has convinced a majority of the science team to continue with Project M.I.N.A....the rest have been 'convinced' to remain silent. Though initially reluctant myself, I have also come to admit that we've come too close to our goal to quit now. V1 -and the mutated virus subnamed 'V2'- may yet hold the secrets for which we are still searching. InterAllied's insistence on assigning S.S.N. Voyageur to us will make this difficult, but not impossible."  
  
At that moment, the picture was consumed in electronic snow as the tape came to an end, leaving the viewers mute with disbelief...and horror.  
  
  
  
  
It was an effort to force his hands to remain steady...for if he relaxed his concentration even a little, his mask of steel self-assurance would begin to slip and the uneasiness he truly felt would reveal itself...and his hands would tremble. Chip Morton shook his head slightly at no-one and nothing in particular as he rubbed his eyes, trying to free them of the obscuring saline fluid that would well up and blind them. The air was much clearer now -at least, it was cleaner than it had been only hours ago- but there was still a slight, acrid haze in it that made his eyes sore and watery...and it would stay that way for a long while yet.  
  
Morton sighed deeply and continued to study the print-out sheets in his hands. The first was a casualty list -so far, twenty men dead and more than twice that injured; some severely ...some which might enter the ranks of the dead before the day was done. Another heavy sigh escaped Morton's lips -it was never easy to accept the demise of one's shipmates. He had once heard it said that the day it got easy was the day one should quit the Service.  
  
The second sheet was a long list, noting each and every possible kind of damage a submarine could suffer and still function...and with each revision, the list seemed to grow. The damage to the grey lady had far outstripped initial estimates. Though life support systems were in fairly good order and the reactors had, somehow, remained unscathed (technicians suspected that the special shielding there might have had something to do with it), there was still the cold, hard fact that Seaview would not be going anywhere for a long time. Around the Executive Officer, the Control Room crew had fallen to their individual duties with a ferocious single-mindedness that bordered on desperation and little by little, the Control Room was beginning to actually resemble the brain of the Seaview as they had all once known it a seeming eternity ago.  
  
The Executive Officer of the Seaview did not count himself as either particularly superstitious or religious, but he would not resist offering prayers to whatever higher power cared to hear them, if it would get Seaview afloat and her crew home. Neither he nor the great submersible nor her crew were ready to die just yet.  
  
"God dammit!"  
  
Morton glanced up sharply from the papers in his hand at the sound of the indignant cry and the loud clatter of metal hitting the deck. For a long pause, the droning murmur of human activity fell still as all eyes momentarily turned towards the Radio Shack where Sparks sat hunched over the mangled console, his work kit of fine tools up-ended, the expression on his young face ugly with frustration and anger as he sucked on the jagged, bleeding wound on his right index finger. Morton cast a silent glare of warning to the rest of the Control Room crew and the familiar hum of vigorous activity returned as he made his way to the communications' center. Morton pulled aside the scorched remains of the curtain which partially obscured the watch station, noting with no surprise that the radio operator had returned to his duties in what seemed to be a vain effort to avoid acknowledging that the embarrassing incident had happened at all.  
  
"Sparks?"  
  
Sparks winced visibly before he slowly set aside the miniature laser welding torch with exaggerated care and turned to face the Executive Officer. "Yes, sir?" he asked almost timidly, surreptitiously shaking the wounded hand at his side.  
  
The Executive Officer glanced at the gutted radio console and then at the bleary-eyed communications' officer. He felt a stab of pity towards the young officer who had worked the long hours of his watch without complaining despite the fact that it was somewhat past his normal time. No...he wouldn't bother mentioning the obvious fact that certain expensive instruments were still lying on the deck. "How's it coming along?" Morton asked instead as he bent down and reached towards the up-ended tool kit.  
  
"The energy-pulse overloaded just about every circuit board in the console, sir." Sparks pushed himself up straight in his seat, flinching at the sharp pain at the base of his spine and the ache in the seat of his pants. He gestured wearily to the ravaged radio console, the villainous micro-screwdriver with which he had injured himself still in his hand. "The whole thing has to be rewired."  
  
Morton placed the last of the delicate instruments in the kit and paused, silently considering the grim possibilities forming within his brain. "Can you do it?"  
  
"Yes, sir...but I don't know how long it'll take...especially with most of the communications' team laid up like they are." The young officer turned aside to stifle a long, heavy yawn, and then stopped, struck by a small inspiration. "With the XO's permission, if I could have technician's mate Peter Clarke assigned to me, it'd be a great help. He's not part of the communications' corps yet, I know, but he's a wizard at communications' electronics."  
  
Commander Morton nodded in the affirmative. "Consider it done. I'll have him..." Just then, the Executive Officer's voice faded to nothing, his countenance suddenly blank and just as suddenly etched with aghast disbelief. He couldn't have... It just wasn't possible that he had forgotten...   
  
Morton caught Sparks' bewildered, questioning stare. "Ah... Keep on it. I'll get you some assistance right away." Sparks nodded slowly, still puzzled by the Executive Officer's suddenly strange behavior as Morton strided over to where Patterson was closing up the inspection panel on the burned-out fathometer. "Patterson..?"  
  
Patterson stood up sharply. "Sir?"  
  
Morton fished in his pants' pocket and pulled out a set of keys on a small metal loop. "I want you to release Tomàs and Clarke from the Brig on my authority. Have them report to the Control Room."  
  
Patterson gave the Executive Officer an odd look. "Aye, sir..."  
  
Morton turned aside, unwilling to have anyone see the look of anger and mortified embarrassment at his lapse of memory and duty on his visage. How in the name of all good reason, when the ship needed each and every one of her able-bodied crew, could he have forgotten to release the two crewmen? Morton shook his head, incredulous, wondering -almost seriously- if he had been struck with some form of early senility and scowled all the deeper when he heard a sound which sounded suspiciously like a giggle...at his expense.  
  
  
  
  
The silence was deafening as Nelson removed the second micro-video diskettes from the viewing unit while Crane sat in the swivel chair across from the monitor, his right hand slowly twisting the signet ring around the ring finger of his left, as he stared silently at some distant spot on the bare bulkhead. Nelson returned his attention to the job at hand -he didn't feel much like talking either. They had both experienced their share of horrors while serving aboard Seaview -and some on other vessels before her- but nothing the likes of which they had heard in the last short while. The mere mention of disease had struck the same chord of horror and fear in them -modern men of the twenty-first century that they were- as it had their ancient forebears many generations past...though, at least, they both privately hoped that they were hiding that instinctive fear a little better than their ancestors. Things borne of nature or supernature could usually be battled, outwitted...but how could one outwit a disease? Neither captain nor admiral had an answer and so, for the moment, remained silent.  
  
Nelson activated the viewing monitor, the screen flaring almost immediately as the last tape began to play. When Dr. Bergman's image returned to the screen, the picture was shrouded in the thin haze of electronic distortion, shifting video noise, of a video recorded by a filthy old machine or subjected to some kind of external abuse. Her appearance was different as well -she was no longer the care-laden, but efficiently kempt woman of the recording preceding this one. The handsome woman of forty or so had become a gaunt, drained one of about sixty -easily- and haggard, the once silver stippled black hair now nearly completely grey. Her medical lab smock was heavily creased, a tear on one sleeve, strange brown stains spattered here and there on the cloth. She didn't seem to notice or care that the ever-present cigarette in her mouth was unlit -spent butts spilling onto the table in front of her from a mound of the same piled onto the stained ashtray.  
  
"This...will probably be my last log -there doesn't really seem to be much of a point in recording them anymore. Oh God... What is the point to all of this? No matter... The fact is that most of the science team members are dead -our...'dear' Dr. Ionescu died just yesterday- and a large number of the crew of the Voyageur have succumbed to our 'little mistake'...and I..."  
  
Dr. Bergman laughed softly to herself, a strange disjointed sound. "Let's just say that I strongly doubt that I will have to suffer the indignity of a retirement party... It's probably for the best... Detractors of Project M.I.N.A. seemed to believe from the first that it was some kind of a sin to presume to be God -maybe they were right. I have come to realize that Project M.I.N.A. was cursed from the start. I recorded the details before, when my mind was clearer, but most of the diskettes are gone -I just don't know where- but if I hadn't smuggled the other two away when I had, I don't know..." The scientist shuddered visibly. "Doesn't matter... I'll try to remember as much as I can...  
  
"About two weeks after the arrival of the Voyageur, there was an accident...an explosion in the main generator room and a massive fire... A series of secondary explosions caused the destruction of the storage area where the secure containers of V2 were being kept, releasing massive quantities of both the virus itself and contaminated shrapnel." Dr. Bergman crushed the cigarette between her fingers and her voice fell curiously flat. "Despite our best containment procedures, wide-spread infection was inevitable. I...I don't know why we were so surprised...or why any of us even bothered to try to hide the extent of the truth from Voyageur's crew. V2 spread too quickly, a geometric progression...a geometric progression of sickness...madness... No-one who hasn't actually seen what I've seen could even imagine the things that once good men and women have done and are doing to each other...and themselves. Those who die quickly can rest a little, but the others pass into madness that grows more and more bloodthirsty with time as if the mere sight of blood arouses them to create greater, more horrific violence..."  
  
For several long minutes, Mila Bergman sat with her head propped in her hands, shoulders slumped and thin, before she faced the camera again. "It used to take days -more- to detect the virus...sometimes not at all, but the only real triumph we've had in curing our deadly brainchild is a reagent which can detect the virus in its host within seconds with infallible accuracy -for all the good it's done us. The disk containing the original copy of the formula for the reagent has been destroyed...don't ask me who, how, or why...the only written copy that still exists is in the personal journal I have decided to give to Captain Hudson at the completion of this taping. As far as I know, he is not infected...at least, not yet... I have to be certain that at least one copy remains safe -it could hold the key to an eventual cure." Nelson reacted, a frown of concentration creasing his brow, as he remembered the second of the unofficial log books.  
  
The image of Dr. Bergman cracked a crooked smile. "I hope that whoever reads it can understand Hebrew...if it ever sees the light of day at all. I don't know what's for the best anymore...or if death will provide any more respite than this twisted life that we've created. Even the dead are restless in this place of the damned.  
  
"Our impatience had cursed us -we didn't want to wait for something that might have taken a lifetime...or longer. For forbidden knowledge, we courted the Devil...and he gave us children." Doctor Bergman paused, lost for a moment in the disjointed thoughts within her brain, before she faced the camera once more. "My God...what have we done?"  
  
The screen went blank.  
  
  
  
  
The keys jingled on the metal loop, an almost pleasant sound, as seaman Patterson made his way along the grimy deck, his pace quick despite the occasional, random obstruction; bits and pieces of debris here and there, the still grimy air forcing him to blink rapidly to clear his eyes...but he didn't pause for long. Didn't dare. Two steps out of the Control Room, he had realized why Mr. Morton had seemed so anxious -it was more than possible that Tomàs and Clarke had been left in the Brig, forgotten in the ensuing confusion after the Seaview had been brutally sent to the bottom where she now lay. It was also possible that someone had released them -the Skipper or someone else perhaps- but that wasn't a certainty and the XO's expression had been enough for this seaman to know that questions would not be brooked. Better to be sure than sorry anyhow.  
  
A grim sigh heaved Patterson's chest as the steel-barred doors of the Brig came into view, still secure, likely not opened since before the crash. It wasn't his fault that the two crewmen had been forgotten in the madness, but he knew that he would be the one to get it in the face -Tomàs had an ugly temper when it was aroused, and he and Peter Clarke had never been exactly close. No particular reason, it had just turned out that way. Patterson took a steeling breath -into the abyss...  
  
The keys jingled again as he sorted them out and started to place one in the lock. "Okay, you guys, the XO wants-" Just then, as he looked up, Patterson's jaw fell slack, his mouth working loosely and silently, as the keys fell from his hand to clatter harshly against the hard deck. He turned away from the Brig door sharply, leaning heavily against the bulkhead, his face blanching pale...and vomited.  
  
  
  
  
An audible groan echoed throughout the length of the Seaview, her internal lighting array flickering and then regaining its normal brilliance, as the great grey submarine shifted ever so slightly once more until the deck beneath the feet of the men within her became even, freed finally from the small, but awkward tilt that had plagued her since the devastating accident, making even the most minor duty a frustratingly difficult task.  
  
Crane glanced up towards the ceiling as Seaview stirred and then became still, his dark eyes probing as if he could envision the dark waters beyond the grey lady's hull. He almost felt as if he could. There were times that he felt as though he and the vessel had achieved some impossible empathy; a joining of man and machine on some spiritual plane. The Captain returned his attention to the underwater photographs taken by one of the deep-sea divers, a little bewildered that he had come to wax so poetic despite the fact that he had no talent for it. Perhaps suffering was the stuff of great writers...or perhaps, he had merely admitted to himself a truth that he had always secretly believed.  
  
The Captain of the Seaview willed himself to ignore the muse of creativity in favor of the blacker present reality as he stared at the photographs, each in its turn. The divers had reported that the ship was resting on a rocky ledge, fairly stable, too far from the edge to fall off and tumble into the fathomless depths below it, but near enough to remind them all of how close they had come to joining countless other sailors before them whose bodies the sea had ultimately claimed as its own. From what he had heard, divers were all too glad to come in from their individual diving rotations -few stayed out longer than they had to. It was dark at these depths; oppressively dark, the negritude broken only by the unnatural murky light of the Seaview's external lighting array, and the valleys of the sea were a void. No...no-one wanted to stay out there any longer than he had to.  
  
The Admiral was removing the micro-video diskette from the video monitor; the screen of the unit blank and video-ready blue before he stabbed the "off" button and the screen went black. "Well," Nelson said quietly, abruptly, as he placed the diskettes back on his desk with a gesture of finality, "now we know."  
  
Crane uttered a small laugh of annoyance at things he could neither understand nor change. "We know what happened...at least, we know some of what happened," he muttered, grimacing slightly as he covertly massaged a small twinge of discomfort in the base of his stomach with one hand while he picked up the second of the two journals with the other, silently chastising his treasonous body for having chosen this, of all times, to give him an acute case of indigestion. He studied the decorative, almost alien script within the journal. It was Hebrew as the late Dr. Bergman had indicated that it would be, but beyond a precious few words he had acquired during his many cruises, he could not read it. If the little luck that had preserved Seaview from a premature death was still with them, there had to be someone aboard who could. Crane regarded the notebook, deep in thought. "But why did it happen?"  
  
"And how can we possibly vouch for the veracity of anything we have heard or learned when the line between sanity and madness had obviously become so thin?" Nelson demanded with a tired shake of his head. "I know."  
  
"Delta was real," Crane offered, "and so was the Voyageur."  
  
"In this case -unfortunately true." Nelson sighed aloud and reached for the pack of cigarettes within the breast pocket of his uniform shirt, a gnawing longing for the forbidden weed made all the worse by a double-cursed situation over which he had no control. As a scientist and a naval man, he had been trained to believe that there were always a myriad of possibilities if one bothered to seek them out, but at the moment, and the foreseeable future, he could think of only two -to continue the repairs on this stricken vessel...and wait. A thoroughly unacceptable situation...and -Nelson opened the foil and paper pack- Surgeon General be damned, he needed a cigarette.  
  
"Admiral Nelson, this is Morton."  
  
Nelson and Crane looked up at the same time as the tinny sound of Commander Chip Morton's voice came over the speaker mounted on the bulkhead of Nelson's cabin. "Wonder what's going on this time..." Nelson muttered vaguely. Though the transmission had not been preceded by the usual announcement signal -yet another electronic breakdown, no doubt- the signal was much clearer than it had been for the long hours previously, sometimes all but free of the after-effects of the plasma-burst bomb that had crippled the submarine...clear enough, at least, to hear the uneasy note in the Executive Officer's words. Nelson cast Crane a questioning look which was answered by an equally puzzled furrowing of the Commanding Officer's brow as Nelson stabbed the receive button on his desk intercom speaker. "Nelson here. What's the problem, Chip?"  
  
There was a pause, not of silence, but of a small sigh somehow heard over the low-frequency electronic hiss. "Is the Skipper there with you?"  
  
"He is," Nelson replied a little tersely despite himself as he automatically stuffed the unlit cigarette back into the pack secreted within his breast pocket. "Now what's the problem?"  
  
There was a pause, but not as long. "We have a...situation in the Brig, sir," Morton said finally. "You'd better get down here."  
  
  
  
  
Once, several years ago, Harriman Nelson remembered, while driving on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, traffic -which had until then flown freely- had come to a near stand-still for no apparent reason. It hadn't been until a little over an hour had passed that he had learned the reason why. As his car had inched forward along with the rest of the vehicular caravan, he had become witness to the nightmare of nearly all automobilists: a car wreck...two vehicles all but wrapped around each other like crushed soda cans, paramedics tending to victims who were well beyond all caring, and witnesses...well, it had been the rubbernecking motorists, one after the other, that had caused the traffic slow-down -not the crash itself. It had been as if the sight of spilled blood had hypnotized them into one long train of gawkers, somehow unable to look away from the horror.  
  
This was a little like that.  
  
As he and Captain Crane bounded down the corridor towards the Brig in response to the Executive Officer's cryptic utterance, they came upon a small crowd of crewmen (and a few officers), each wearing that familiar expression of aghast wonder as they blocked passage to the Brig, staring at -what? One of the chief petty officers was pushing his way through a milling group of crewmen, a tremor to his gruff voice despite the equally familiar bluster of a C.P.O.. "Move your butts, men -this isn't a matinee! Get back to your duties! Let the Admiral and the Captain through!" Slowly, amidst the buzz of voices, the human mass parted, and Nelson and Crane became witnesses to their own scene of horror.  
  
Commander Morton was standing by the door to the Brig, his already fair-toned skin blanching a sickly white. By one of the bulkheads, Chief Sharkey was trying to get some kind of coherent statement out of Patterson who, all but doubled over with revulsion, had been violently physically ill and -as corpsmen backed out of the Brig, bearing two covered stretchers- was about to be sick again. Nelson and Crane approached the covered litters despite an instinctive little voice in their heads that had gone off like an emergency klaxon, demanding that they not look at what was best not seen...but there was never any choice in that. There was no way that they could have avoided seeing that the white sheets covering the body-shaped mounds were grotesquely saturated with wet gore.   
The XO drew a steeling breath and pulled aside the bloodied cloths. As the stained sheets were moved, Nelson felt the remnants of a meal recently eaten, begin to force its way up his esophagus as a dizzying nausea almost overwhelmed him, but, somehow, did not. He had witnessed death before -in battle and otherwise...very rarely witnessing a death that had occurred when a man fell asleep and never awoke. He had given far more eulogies than any man should have to have given in one lifetime. Therefore, the sight of a dead body was in no way unfamiliar to him...but what Harriman Nelson saw now sickened him to the very depths of his being. That seamen Roberto Tomàs and Peter Clarke were dead was obvious...even a blind man could make no mistake in this. Their pallid faces were frozen, twisted in a last expression of fear or rage; blood like garishly painted lipstick, covering their mouths and their throats... The ragged, red tears there were jagged grins of flesh and blood.  
  
Nelson looked away as a pale XO replaced the stained covers and saw in passing the mask of horrified fascination on Crane's face as the litters were borne away. Doc emerged from the deserted Brig, his haggard visage stricken and wan as he approached the Admiral, his medical bag hanging uselessly in his hand. "They can't have been dead for more than...two hours...less perhaps. I'd say they...they killed each other."  
  
"And no-one heard them fighting?" Morton demanded in disbelief.  
  
"Warrior cries are movie fodder, Chip..." Crane murmured, his voice detached and somehow distant as he recalled former training best kept unmentioned. "Even animals don't growl aloud when all they see is their opponent...and the kill."  
  
Doc nodded, acknowledging, but not entirely comprehending. He stared down the corridor...the shadows suddenly strange to his eyes...until he returned the Admiral's questioning gaze. "Rigor hasn't set in yet."  
  
Being a medical man, a scientist, had always to him seemed to preclude the idea of psychicism, of the reading of minds, but Doc was certain that he knew what his admiral and captain were thinking. They did not need to speak it to say it. Doc drew a deep, shuddering breath. "They attacked each other, Admiral...scratching and biting...and I don't know why." The Chief Medical Officer paused for a moment, thinking. "But I can tell you this -the wounds were not serious enough to be fatal."  
  
There was a silence; a heavy, consuming silence...the Admiral, the Captain, and the Executive Officer exchanging looks of mute incredulity; in the background by the bulkhead, Chief Sharkey and the pallid Patterson exchanging the same. Crane shook his head slowly, unthinkingly performing a pantomime of the late crewmen's injuries with his hands as he spoke. "But how? Those wounds..."  
  
"Severe, but not deadly...the blood-loss was significant, but not lethal." Doc's brow creased. "Without a full autopsy, I can't be certain how they died...but I do know that they died. A post-mortem blood test might tell us something." Doc turned in the direction of the corridor that led to the Sick Bay and its medical lab, but then paused, stopping in his tracks before he had gone more than a few steps. "Captain...if you would, I'd like to see the members of both the diving party to Voyageur and the shore party to Delta in the Sick Bay...yourself included."  
  
Nelson regarded the Chief Medical Officer sharply, interrupting before the Captain could speak. "What are you thinking, Doc?"  
  
"With the Admiral's permission..." Doc said grimly, casting a glance at his medical bag. "I'd rather not say...until I'm certain."  
  
  
  
  
"It's a high fly ball! And the San Diego Padres sweep the World Series for the fourth time in a row! A first in baseball history-"  
  
There was a loud, collective groan as video phantoms of the World Series most recently past faded as the video tape came to an end and, for those who had betted badly, wistful hopes that history might reverse itself, ended with it...not that anyone had been serious about that. Or... and Kowalski glanced at the jury-rigged video monitor one of the technicians' details had set up in the Mess Room...he hoped that no-one had taken a wish like that seriously as much as he himself might have wished otherwise. Losing one hundred dollars to Lieutenant Horowitz on a baseball bet was not exactly something he cared to remember or admit...but there were better reasons than lost bets to want to change the past.  
  
Kowalski scowled to himself as the synthetic Styrofoam cup that he was carrying in his bandaged hand slipped ever so slightly from his grasp, hot milky coffee sloshing noisily from side to side within the cup's basin as he quickly righted his grip, avoiding a messy and embarrassing incident. Two or three of the dispersing audience glanced uneasily in the seaman's direction and just as quickly averted their gazes when they realized that their attention was being returned.  
  
The cords in Kowalski's neck stiffened visibly, his jaw clenching tightly shut, as he willed the sharp response forming within his brain to remain there, silent and unspoken. He was neither blind nor stupid -he had seen those same looks before, recently, and had heard the muffled whisperings that somehow stopped when his presence became known. Almost unconsciously, the seaman's free hand traveled up his arm and massaged the dull ache in the spot where Doc had taken that last sample of blood only hours before...tests taken to make sure that Doc had not missed something the first time around...tests taken to be certain that neither the shore party nor the diving party had brought "something" aboard the Seaview.  
  
Kowalski sat heavily at one of the long Mess Room tables, alone with his thoughts. That was the rumor, wasn't it? Scuttlebutt had it that one or more members of either party had brought something, some sickness aboard Seaview. That Doc's second battery of tests -even more intensive despite being handicapped by having to use old manual equipment because of the submarine's still-compromised electrical system- had proven otherwise, did not seem to matter. The crew was still afraid.  
  
A psychotic snap -a state of temporary psychosis brought on by stress and fear- had pressed Clarke and Tomàs to attack each other. Biocardio-infarctions -terror-induced heart attacks- had killed them...or so Doc had said. No sickness. No nebulous plague. Just an extraordinary set of circumstances that had one chance in a million of happening again as they had. But the fear was still there...and so were the looks, the whispers...the doubt. Kowalski sipped the brew in the cup, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste of over-brewed coffee, and suppressed the tremor in his hands. Yeah...the doubt was there...and two more good sailors were not.  
  
"'Ski."  
  
Kowalski looked up as Riley sat just across from him at the same table, mildly surprised at the young crewman's grim, grey pallor and raised an eyebrow in bewilderment as the dour-faced young crewman produced a small carton of 2% milk -apparently, the refrigeration units were in working order, Kowalski noted silently as Riley doggedly, awkwardly struggled with the container's tightly sealed spout, hands fumbling with the fused cardboard until the opening suddenly tore, splashing hands and uniform with the cold, white liquid. Riley's youthful countenance twisted with a scowl that was almost as comical as it was alien to his face. He glanced up at the crewman who sat across from him and then buried himself in the seemingly impossible task of not spilling anymore of the milk as he anxiously searched for a dry cloth, muttering audibly under his breath: "Fan-fucking-tastic..."  
  
Somehow, Kowalski managed not to smile and nudged an ever-present dispenser of white paper-serviettes that had somehow escaped the perturbed Riley's notice over to where the young crewman was furiously struggling to sop up the small, widening pool of liquid before him with a crumpled handkerchief he had yanked out of a pocket before the milk ended up on the deck which had been swabbed only a short while ago. "Doc, put you through the ringer, Stu?" Kowalski asked finally, peering through the rising billow of translucent steam rolling down the sides of his cup.  
  
Riley shrugged slightly with a deep, dramatic sigh of the overly burdened. "And then some," he muttered through clenched teeth and then shook his head at the results of his efforts. He grabbed the wet paper and then, after a moment's hesitation, added the soaking handkerchief to the pile, and then tossed the sodden ball towards a waiting waste basket in which it landed with a dull, sloppy thud. "Didn't tell me anything I didn't already know."  
  
"Like..?"  
  
"Dig." Riley cracked an odd, sour grin and dug into a breast pocket of his duty uniform, pulling out a small, clear plastic pouch which contained three pills. Kowalski recognized the medication immediately. The navy and turquoise capsules were two half-grain units of Fiorinal-C, a potent narcotic painkiller. The tiny, flat, scored orange pill was probably dimenhydrinate, Gravol, or maybe Dramamine -for nausea. He remembered the prescribed medications all too well -he had been obligated to take them on and off this past week to battle a cluster of migraines...and Riley was having to take them too? As Riley would say -total bummer.  
  
Kowalski felt a sympathetic twist of nausea as Riley downed the pills with a draft of the remaining milk and almost gagged on them as they inched their way down his throat...but the moment passed and the young seaman was finally able to relax a little, the tension leaving his shoulders as he regarded his friend through eyes that were already becoming a little glassy in response to the drug. "Is it always like this, 'Ski?"  
  
Kowalski studied Riley's pale face silently before speaking. "What do you mean?"  
  
"These - these migraine-things," Riley explained with open impatience. "I mean, like, I've had head-aches before, you know, and this thing is way more frightful than those -even worse than the day after that time I got totally wasted on that shore leave in Okinawa...Japanese rice wine, dude..."  
  
"It's that bad, huh?"  
  
Riley closed his eyes for a long, drawn out minute, and then opened them again... slowly... his voice, little more than a weak whisper. "It's like this, dude... I can feel a piece of lint falling on my skin. There are some guys down the corridor a ways -I can hear them, 'Ski, like they were right beside me -yelling." He pointed upwards with an unsteady hand at the bar-shaped halogen light fixtures mounted on the ceiling. "Those feel like I'm staring at the noon-day sun and on top of all that, I feel like I've got a ballpeen hammer whacking away at my skull and the sight of food makes me want to puke." Riley stopped as if exhausted from the effort of talking and nodded with great care. "Yeah...it's that bad."  
  
Kowalski studiously stared at the dregs within his cup, wishing that there was more he could do than offer his sympathy, but there was not. The pain was like that -when it was there, it was as if it would never leave. When it was gone, it was as if it had never been. As Riley cradled his head on his folded arms, two of the engineering corps, Halder and Bates, walked by the table, and Kowalski could not help but notice the familiar uneasy look that they cast in his and Riley's direction as they exchanged looks of...what? Kowalski met their eyes and they looked away quickly. The doubt again. It was always the doubt.  
  
Once, not all that long ago, Kowalski knew that he would have been in Halder and Bates' faces had they so much as looked at him the wrong way -his nature to act first and then think was legend- but this was different. Perhaps, admittedly kicking and screaming, his career on Seaview was finally dragging him into maturity. He felt too tired, too burned-out right now to bother-  
  
Suddenly, there was a loud crash as the metal serviette-dispenser landed on the deck, opening and spilling its contents. "What the fuck are you staring at!"  
  
The whispering audience of two stopped in their tracks in the same mute disbelief that bound Kowalski who looked on, a blank expression on his face, as Riley jumped to his feet, seemingly unaware that only minutes ago he had been all but crippled with pain, his normally cherubic face pinched and reddened with anger. "You heard me..." Riley hissed through clenched teeth. "What the fuck are you staring at!"  
  
It was like looking at a changeling; a man whose face and form were identical to the person one knew intimately, and yet...was not that man. This was very much like that. Kowalski stood up slowly, something akin to genuine alarm tickling at the back of his mind as the bizarre scene continued to play itself out before him...a horror movie without a script and an end he didn't particularly want to see. Stu Riley was not one to back out of a fight...and he was also not one to start one...if he could help it. But there was something wrong here...deadly wrong. He knew it. Bates and Halder knew it. Neither man had moved and didn't seem to know whether they should...or not.  
  
"Stu..." At the sound of Kowalski's voice, Riley spun around, eyes glazed and narrow...with suspicion? Madness? Maybe both. That wasn't the Stuart Riley he knew. "Stu...just let it go," he said, almost pleading, as a tentative, hopefully mollifying smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Just let it go, okay?" Kowalski spread his hands in a placating gesture. "You don't want Cookie to call Mr. Morton to throw you in the Brig, do you?"  
  
Riley stared for a moment -at Kowalski, at Bates and Halder who were still frozen in bewilderment- as his own young face fell blank. His fists slowly uncurled and he put a shaky hand to his head as he collapsed like a marionette whose strings have been cut...and crumpled to the deck, his limbs splayed out, spasming violently.  
  
The paralysis of disbelief lasted only a second or two. "Get the corpsmen down here!" Kowalski barked even as he dove for the deck at Riley's side. "NOW!" At the edges of his perceptions, Kowalski heard the one of his fellow crewmen -he didn't really care which- scrambling to obey. Whatever they suspected...whatever they feared, the fact was that a fellow crewman was down. For the moment, at least, that was more important than their private fears. Mental scraps of medical training flashed through Kowalski's mind and though that training had covered the treatment of epileptic seizures, he would never have expected- Kowalski's eyes widened with horror as the convulsing Riley began to gag and then choke, his contorted face darkening to purple. No, no, no! It was not physically possible to swallow one's tongue!   
  
Kowalski thrust his fingers into the crewman's mouth. "Dammit, Stu, no! You're not gonna bail on me-" Kowalski cried out involuntarily as the stricken crewman's teeth suddenly clamped down on his fingers -hard- hard enough that they drew blood which spilled from the wounds and onto Riley's face...and then it stopped. The seizure just stopped. Kowalski ignored the throbbing pain radiating from his wounded fingers as the wracking tremors in Riley's body faded as he blinked...dazed and bewildered, like a man waking from a nightmare, and turned his head and looked at the friend who could only regard him with worry-laden care. Riley's eyes were as wide and bright as those of a small child as a vague smile lighted his red-smeared lips. "Oh wow, 'Ski...what a rush..." His eyes closed.  
  
Thundering feet announced the arrival of the corpsmen; corpsmen who stopped for a moment, frozen by the sight of the grim human tableau before them of Kowalski cradling Riley's limp, lifeless body in his arms.  
  
There was no longer any need to hurry.  
  
  
  
6  
  
  
  
  
It had been said that the dead traveled fast. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps it wasn't...but certain was the fact that news of death traveled very fast indeed. Loose lips had carried the news of the deaths of Tomàs and Clarke, and the horrifically peculiar circumstances surrounding their demise, around the entirety of Seaview within hours. The news of the death of Stuart Riley had covered the ship within a mere matter of minutes. But while sorrow had attended the demise of the crewmen whose lives had been lost when Seaview had been stricken by Delta's plasma-burst bomb, fear had attended the deaths of Tomàs, Clarke, and Riley.  
  
What had been suspected, and dreaded, had become a certainty in the hearts and minds of most of Seaview's crew: when the shore and diving parties had returned to Seaview, something had boarded the submarine with them...some sickness...some madness-inducing plague that all the decontamination equipment and procedures they had used, had somehow missed. No-one knew or would admit to knowing who had started that particular rumor or how that person had gotten what information he had on the nebulous sickness on Delta in the first place -it didn't really matter anymore- but the fear aboard Seaview was an almost palpable reality. Regardless of rank, the crew had begun to regard each other with ill-concealed suspicion, each man secretly afraid that the one serving next to him might be carrying -what?  
  
That was the question. What? Doc looked up from the stereoscopic microscope, his eyes reddened from weariness and long hours of effort as he made some notations on the laptop computer perched on the cluttered lab table to his side. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he brushed aside the limp strand of hair that had drifted into his eyes with a frustrated flip of his hand. A glance at the mute electronic brain which held all of the medical information that the medical corps, including himself, had gathered during this cruise told him little. There was knowledge there, perhaps even some clues; bytes that held a tiny piece of fact or conjecture each...but no answers...and answers were what they needed right now.  
  
"Well?"  
  
Harriman Nelson's gruff voice broke a stillness that had been punctuated for the lest few hours only by the soft droning hum of the electronic equipment that had finally seen fit to come on-line in the medical lab (for now, at least), the dull clicking of computer keyboard keys, and the low sound of the breathing of the men that waited within the sterile room; a soft intaking of breath that fell still just for a second or two as the lights within the lab flickered, dimmed and then flared to almost, but not quite their normal intensity as the stricken ship shifted ever so subtly and then settled again, reminding them that their present problem was in no way their only one.  
  
Doc regarded the bar-shaped sterile white lights mounted on the ceiling with silent unease and then, with a visible effort to appear untroubled, reached over to the sliver-thin laptop computer, turning it so that the Admiral could see better the read-out displayed on its screen. Nelson nudged the apparently distracted Lee Crane with a tap on the shoulder, indicating for him to look as well...which the Captain did with ill-concealed reluctance. "It's as I told you before," the Chief Medical Officer said, flexing his stiffened fingers. "According to the tests I was able to conduct, Stuart Riley should be alive and well."  
  
Crane's eyes narrowed visibly, disbelieving, as he took in the information displayed on the pale-green screen. He had some medical training -enough, at least, to understand what he was reading- but he had also talked to and had tried to comfort one grief-stricken seaman named Kowalski for whom the death-throes of a friend had been immovably burned into memory.   
  
Riley...  
  
Crane swallowed. He had liked the occasionally flighty young crewman too. "According to Kowalski -according to other witnesses as well- Riley seemed to have some sort of violent episode and was then struck by an 'epileptic' seizure of some sort. Doc, people have died because of them before."  
  
"True...but not five hours ago, I treated Riley for a violent migraine and even with the compromised equipment, I would have detected any cerebral abnormalities indicative of an aneurysm, hemorrhaging, tumorous presence, or epilepsy." Doc caught Admiral Nelson's sharply questioning look. "Non-intrusive scans in both diagnostic and post-mortem phases... Either way, I'm telling you that I can find no reason physical reason why a healthy young man should suddenly keel over and die. A full autopsy might tell me something more." Doc paused, his expression slightly sour. "Were I able to perform one."  
  
"Unless it was a disease that can't be detected by normal means."  
  
Both Nelson and Doc started at Crane's grim suggestion, but they both knew that the Captain had merely voiced what they, too, suspected. The medical corps had studied -were still studying- the recorded evidence of the illness science had created; a virus that had mutated and had become all but impossible to detect by the scientists who had seen to its creation...a disease that might have boarded Seaview with her men...a plague that had no cure. As the implications of what they knew and feared weighed heavily on the men within the submarine, within this room, there came a new awareness -that of if the Seaview had become a plague ship, repaired or not, she could not touch port until a cure was found. The fact was that they didn't know one way or another -there was no real proof beyond that of circumstance- and that was far more frightening than anything else the crew had suffered thus far -pointless to seek what might not have been there...and maybe all but impossible to protect oneself against something that might have been.  
  
"But Dr. Bergman's personal journal..." Nelson muttered in mild protest as he paced the length of the room restlessly. "There must be something about the reagent that can detect the presence of the virus. If it is aboard we have to know! If...if we were to go against orders and perform internal examinations, we would have to know what precautions to take -if any can be taken at all!"  
  
"Yes, sir, I know. But if it is in there, we haven't found it yet." Doc stabbed a button on the laptop unit and the computer uttered a curious mechanical hum as the data within it began to download into the main medical computer. "Yeoman Myerson's working on it now. He has excellent Hebrew...but there is as much gibberish in Dr. Bergman's log as there is logical observation. It may take-"  
  
"Look, you drop-out ex-airdale, I can count!"  
  
"How about counting all the times when you've been wrong!"  
  
The conversation between Nelson, Crane, and Doc fell suddenly silent as the sounds of a very heated verbal exchange -loud and growing louder- reached their ears from the adjoining medical stores. Doc's jaw tightened involuntarily as he cast an apologetic look of embarrassment in the direction of his superior officers and then shot one of anger in the direction of the other room, the hem of his lab coat catching and tearing on the sharp, crumpled edge of the recently battered desk as he stood up sharply and crossed the distance to the partially closed door.  
  
The heated debate came to an abrupt end, voices falling silent, as the two corpsmen stopped, frozen in the instant before coming to blows, by the thunder of the medical stores' door crashing against the bulkhead, their superior officer standing there -arms folded, fingers tapping out a muted staccato rhythm on the sleeve of his upper arm. "Well..?"  
  
Roderiguez glanced at Gill who returned the look just as uneasily -the shared expression of a doomed man. An eternity seemed to pass before Roderiguez rediscovered his voice despite the Chief Medical Officer's baleful glare. He proffered the clipboard in his hand almost timidly. "We... seem to be missing several units of whole blood from the refrigerated medical stores...sir."   
  
"It was a miscount, Roderiguez," Gill hissed under his breath. "Blood doesn't just go-"  
  
"That will be all, gentlemen!" Doc snapped, lips drawn tight as he quickly scanned the printed page. "Do either of you realize that the Admiral and the Captain are in the other room! I cannot believe your-" The physician's lined brow furrowed visibly. "...your..." Doc's eyes darted along the printed words as he quickly flipped the pages, one after the other, his indignation over neglected protocol taking second place to something more immediate. "Is this correct?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Roderiguez answered, not daring to sound as smug as he was tempted to feel. He cast a glare of warning to the contentious corpsman to his side who rolled his eyes heavenward as if to beg off on another argument on the matter. "We are missing sixteen units of whole blood -seven 'O' positive, two 'B' positive, two 'B' negative, and five 'AB' negative...and that's taking into account what we used in medical procedures after the crash."  
  
The puzzled cast to the Chief Medical Officer's visage deepened, his pale eyes scanning the pages over and over again as if the effort would change what he read, as his lips became a tight thin line. Sixteen units... Even under the best of circumstances, they could not afford to be missing sixteen units of whole blood. "All right," he said finally. "Let's look through the medical stores again."  
  
  
  
"Doc's dealt with the situation by the sound of it."  
  
"Hmn..."  
  
A troubled cast darkened Admiral Nelson's brow at the sound of Crane's non-response -an answer that was more an inarticulated grunt than an actual acknowledgment...which probably meant that the young officer hadn't heard a word that he had said. Nelson pushed himself off of the large faux-wood desk and walked over to where Crane stood staring at a laminated copy of a map of the Seaview, his dark eyes fixed as if mesmerized by the bulkhead-mounted image so common to every deck of the ship. Nelson gave the static image a half-interested cursory look, the Captain not seeming to notice that he was there. "What are you thinking?" he asked gently.  
  
Crane stared at the image a moment longer, one hand unconsciously twisting the signet ring on the other. "I was just wondering about things...about the impracticality of a quarantine on a submarine," he said quietly and glanced down at the ring with a slightly troubled frown -the ring was loose and slid from his finger easily...far more easily than it had only days ago. What an incredible thought...Crane almost idly slid the ring back and forth for a moment or two...quickweight-loss through constant tension -fantastic idea although a little impractical, he thought, grim humor tempting him to smile when he had little right and even less reason. He turned slowly and regarded Nelson who stood waiting with the troubled countenance of the overburdened it seemed, for the rest of the answer. "I'd always wondered about it...carriers and destroyers could maybe manage one, but not a submarine...not with our air system and the way that we're 'housed' together ... but I never thought that the idea would actually ever be put to the test."  
  
"We don't know that it has now," Nelson countered quietly. "Every casualty on this ship during this cruise has had a logical explanation that precludes plague...or viral illness of any kind."  
  
A brief sardonic smile animated Crane's young countenance. "Do you really believe that?"  
  
Lies and half-truths manifested themselves within Nelson's psyche, masquerading as absolute truths. The Admiral of the Seaview studied his captain who seemed to be waiting for an answer. Like many times in the past, Crane had been succinct and to the point -did Harriman Nelson believe that there was no mysterious virus on board Seaview? Did he? Yes...no...he didn't know. In the end, Nelson said nothing and in so doing, had given the Captain the awful answer he had suspected all along. There were few things as terrible as dread-filled certainty ...certainty that Seaview had become a plague ship.  
  
"They were far too young, y'know," Crane said when the silence seemed to drag on far too long. "Riley...Tomàs...Clarke...just kids -and children shouldn't be on a ship like this."  
  
"Were you an adult when you joined the Navy, Lee?" Nelson asked pointedly though he already knew the answer to his question. Hadn't he been there...known Crane for most of his life? Lee Crane had joined the Navy young; underage if the truth be known...a skinny young kid whose exceptional intelligence and mile-long stubborn streak had impressed the then Captain Harriman Nelson to use his small measure of influence to waive the technicalities and stretch the rules a little to allow the otherwise underage boy to make use of a little known clause in the regulations to join the Navy -a decision he had never regretted. His tutelage, among others, had honed the raw talents of a willful boy into the finely tuned skills of a man, an officer -a captain- when most Crane's age were still struggling with the entrance exams at the Naval Academy...a young man who grieved because he cared almost too much for his men and had no choice but to accept that death was no respecter of youth.   
  
Nelson rested a hand on Crane's shoulder and felt the tension bleed out of it...at least, a little. "Lee, we have survived far worse than this. If something is aboard, we will find the cure." Crane nodded mutely. "For now, I want you to have a rest. You've been up on your feet for far too long."  
  
Crane glanced at his watch automatically. "No...I'd rather stay on watch. I'm really not all that tired," he protested.  
  
Nelson folded his arms with mock severity, recognizing the familiar pattern of the usual argument being woven again. "I don't remember inviting debate, Lee."  
  
Crane regarded the Admiral uncertainly, suddenly, despite himself, afraid. "Are you...are you putting me into quarantine ...sir?"  
  
"No," Nelson replied evenly, a small twinkle in his pale eyes, "but what I...what the crew needs right now is a captain -not a zombie. I'll inform you should anything arise." Nelson saw another familiar look forming on the young commanding officer's face and hastened to add: "Don't make me order you to do it. I assure you that it'll be embarrassing."  
  
For a moment, Crane seemed on the verge of protesting anyway as he waged a silent war within himself, and then slowly relented, a small sigh of what seemed to be relief escaping his lips. "Aye, sir."  
  
The stillness was complete again after the door to the medical lab closed softly behind Seaview's captain; a far more complete stillness than normal because in the present quiet, Nelson suddenly realized that the familiar seemingly omnipresent hum of Seaview's engines no longer formed a part of the general rhythm of the ship...and in that moment, Nelson was suddenly aware that he missed it. The Admiral turned, hearing the sound of the door to the medical stores click as it was shut. Doc was standing there with a puzzled frown on his brow as he studied the stores' list again, reminding himself that the figures had not changed -sixteen units of whole blood were still missing and unaccounted for. "Doc?"  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
Nelson crossed the distance between them. "Of the casualties thus far, how many of the deaths could be considered...'strange'?"  
  
The Chief Medical Officer hesitated as he went over the mental roster within his brain -it didn't take long. "Of the twenty-five deaths...thirteen, including Stuart Riley. I'd be more certain if all of the A-level diagnostic equipment were on-line...even from simple blood tests."  
  
Nelson grimaced slightly at thoughts which he did not wish to think and realizations which refused to be denied -something deadly had boarded his submarine...and it didn't walk with two legs. He caught Doc's anxious expression. "You'll have them...and more."  
  
  
  
  
"'Ski..."   
  
Seaman Patterson's hesitant greeting was met with silence, the person to whom it was addressed not seeming to hear it, or just not bothering to answer -which situation it was, he did not care to guess. Very few of Seaview's crew seemed to be thinking all that clearly lately and no matter what he decided, the answer would probably be wrong. Patterson felt the sealed carton of burned-out Missile Room circuitry slip slightly from his grasp, and shifted its position in his arms, determined not to drop it and make a scene. He didn't want to draw attention. Not now. The Missile Room was far from deserted, repair details working at one end or the other, and he...well...he just wanted to talk -if the presently taciturn Kowalski, who was working on an instrumentation panel with single-minded concentration, cared to bother responding -he hadn't thus far...and that wasn't like him at all.  
  
The Kowalski that Patterson knew loved to talk, to voice his opinions on one thing or another, but since the incident in the Mess Room, beyond making his report to the Captain, Kowalski seemed to have stopped talking altogether of anything...even of grief. Patterson gnawed his lower lip with unease as Kowalski continued to work, not even acknowledging his presence as he pulled the instrumentation panel from its recess within the bulkhead, wires dangling from the section, as he muttered to himself, cursing softly under his breath. "'Ski..."  
  
Kowalski continued to work within the panel with a wickedly sharp splicing blade, for some odd reason using the keen-edged instrument to remove bits and pieces of energy pulse-charred insulation, as sweat began to trail down the sides of his face. "What!" he responded finally, sharply, as he glanced to the side out of the corners of his eyes towards a waiting Patterson.  
  
"I..." Patterson paused, unsure how to continue. "I heard about Stu."  
  
"So?"   
  
"I-I know how you feel."  
  
"Do you?" Kowalski paused in his furious efforts for a moment, just long enough to mop his damp forehead with the wrinkled sleeve of his scarlet utility uniform, the hand trembling enough for the sharp splicing tool to fall from his grasp into the mesh of wire and circuitry before him on the deck. "Shit..."  
  
"Yeah, I do..." Patterson knelt beside the stooped-over seaman and placed his own burden on the deck beside him, casting a glance to one side and then the other. Chief Sharkey was supervising a detail not far from them and scuttlebutt had it that the Captain wanted the men to keep busy so that they wouldn't think too much...but he had been thinking...thinking about a lot of things...thinking about how the Seaview had started this cruise with her full compliment of 125 men and had had that number reduced to one-hundred. He felt the loss...Kowalski did too -he was sure of that. Kowalski and Riley hadn't always seen eye to eye on things, but they had been friends. Good friends. "It sometimes helps to talk, you know."  
  
"Hmph..."  
  
"'Ski, I do know how it is when you lose someone you care about. It was the same for me when my father was killed." Kowalski ceased his efforts for a moment, eyes moving as if searching his brain for the memory, but then shrugged slightly and continued with his work. "Grief is like that," Patterson said quietly. "It hurts like hell...and made me say and do a lot of crazy things. I'm lucky that the Skipper and the Admiral understood...but it passed, 'Ski. It'll pass for you too."  
  
"Crazy..." Kowalski stopped in mid-effort, the sharp-edged instrument now clenched within his tensing, bunching hand. He winced, a hiss of pain escaping his tightened lips, as he suddenly turned and regarded Patterson with narrowing eyes...like a beast studying his prey...or something worse. "I'm...not crazy," he said in a low, distracted voice. "I'm not."  
  
"I didn't say you were, 'Ski..." Patterson's eyes widened with puzzled alarm, his attention suddenly caught by something stranger than his shipmate's bewildering attitude. At first, no sound, no voice came from Patterson's mouth, and then... "'Ski, your hand..."  
  
A shadow of puzzlement crossed Kowalski's face, a sudden uncertainty and then, torpid comprehension, as if the messages from his ears took their time to reach his brain, as he slowly regarded his hand. Thick, liquid carmine had begun to seep between the fingers; the sharp metal sliver biting into the tender flesh of the palm of the clenched fist which continued to tighten ...knuckles blanching white, as the sanguine fluid began to drip, droplets of red falling to the dull grey steel deck...and though he could obviously feel the pain, the hand tightened further still.  
  
It was a moment that seemed to last an eternity. "'Ski! Don't!" Patterson lunged and grasped the bloodied hand, struggling to pry the fingers from the sticky makeshift weapon, but madness was strength, and the seaman felt a crashing pain and saw stars as the knuckles of Kowalski's fist connected with his jaw, sending him hurtling backwards to land heavily on the hard deck. There was no time to debate the situation -he and Kowalski had been the best of friends for as long as he could remember- but when the stars blinding his eyes had faded, Patterson realized that Kowalski had pinned him to the deck, straddling his chest, the bloodied blade being pressed ever closer to his throat as he clamped his hands around the man's wrist, struggling to push it away, Kowalski's face twisted with some kind of mindless rage. "'Ski...no!"  
  
"Dammit, sailor! Get the heck offa him!" The blood-stained blade fell to the deck with a harsh clatter as the raging seaman was torn away from his would-be victim. Patterson, dazed with incredulity still, felt himself pulled to his shaky knees by Chief Sharkey, a tiny stinging pain on his throat...barely noticeable...the trickle of blood from the pinpoint wound more so -and beyond that insignificant discomfort, as if from a great distance, he heard Kowalski's garbled, unintelligible screams as he was pinned to the deck by several crewmen as he struggled wildly in inexplicable terror and rage.  
  
There was the sound of running feet resounding against cold steel; the sound of corpsmen bounding into the Missile Room, having been summoned by Chief Sharkey who half-supported Patterson by the arm -both of them could only look on in horror. A foam of spittle and blood from his bitten tongue spattered Kowalski's contorted face, the arms of fellow crewmen imprisoning him though only barely as a corpsman drew a supply of an suspicious, clear fluid into a hypodermic needle and then emptied the contents into the maddened seaman's arm. Seconds passed. Little by little, like an old-fashioned clockwork toy that was winding down, Kowalski's frenzied struggle weakened, spasms fading as the powerful narcotic numbed his enflamed nervous system and leadened his limbs.  
  
Corpsmen loaded the semi-conscious crewman onto a gurney and bore him away, leaving a haunted audience behind them. Sharkey, dazed himself, took Patterson by the arm as the young crewman stood, his pallid face all but blank. "C'mon, kid..." he said, spying the small bloodstain on the neck of the seaman's uniform. "We'd better get you t' the Sick Bay too."  
  
Patterson stared in the direction that the corpsmen had gone for a moment longer before he answered, his voice a mere whisper. "He said it couldn't happen like on the Voyageur...he said it'd never happen..."  
  
The Chief Petty Officer shook his head slowly, the information of what had happened on Voyageur and what he had been told had occurred at Delta still ringing in his brain...and realized that he had no comfort to give.  
  
  
  
  
Memory was a very selective thing.  
  
There were sounds, sights, and smells that passed without notice...without thought...and then, there were those other things -things which one needed experience only once to remember them for a lifetime. His experiences as a corpsman had taught him as much. Sounds filtered through the closed doors, through the walls, from Seaview's surgical theater to Sick Bay proper -muted, but he could still hear everything. Lying here, just thinking...listening...had sharpened his hearing to a point he had never known...as he heard things he remembered hearing an all too short while ago on his own ship. He wished he could forget.  
  
Sterile white sheets rustled softly as Thibideau turned his head ever so slightly in the direction of the voices beyond sight and reach. He could move a little more freely now and yet remain unnoticed. Sometimes, someone would send in one of this ship's N.C.O's, Devereaux, to try to communicate with him -in some odd dialect of French- but that didn't happen much now. What point was there in trying to talk to someone who "couldn't" respond? It made it easier to listen openly and not be seen...but this time...he wished he had not listened. Sometimes, it was better to remain ignorant...ignorant of what was happening aboard this ship...and to that crewman they had rushed into the theater which sounded far too near.  
  
"He's convulsing!"  
  
"Damn -flat line!"   
  
The impassive mask that covered Thibideau's visage flickered ever so slightly as the sharp crackling sound of electricity from a defibrillator in action -how could he not know that somehow insidious noise when he had heard it more than once on the Voyageur as he and others of the Voyageur's medical corps had tried to rescue shipmates in the Sickness' final stages in the days that they had known little more than nothing about it? Cardio-stimulators. Medications that ran the length of the alphabet. Anticonvulsants. None of them had helped then. Nothing would help now. He knew that...and accepted it at last. The end was always the same.  
  
"Damn... We've lost him..."  
  
"Who do we inform first?"  
  
"The Skipper, I guess..."  
  
"Did he have family?"  
  
"I think so -a brother, at least. Stan Kowalski, if I'm right. I'll check."  
  
"Don't bother rushing. We're not going anywhere for awhile."  
  
"Damn..."  
  
Thibideau let the voices fade to the back of his senses, his eyes closing and then opening again a sliver as he scanned his surroundings until his train of vision fell upon the map of the Seaview mounted on the bulkhead, and studied it. Observation room...engine room...reactor...and so on. He used to consider his photographic memory more a burden than a blessing -sights would stick in his head longer than he cared to have them- but as the image of the map burned into his mind's eye, he felt an almost perverse gratitude.  
  
He could not change what had happened, but perhaps he could put an end to it.  
  
  
  
  
"I think I've got it, sir!"  
  
A tentative look of relief washed over Chip Morton's face as the glowing red digits of the LCD depth gauge flickered and then remained constant, the silence of the Control Room crew as complete as his own as the liquid crystal numbers began their steady, rapid count. Perhaps it was an unwillingness on his own part to move as the times dictated that he should, but he had always held a certain preference for the old-fashioned fibre-needle depth gauges of old -as clunky and less accurate as they were said to have been by present standards. At least, they would not have so easily and completely succumbed to the disruptive energy pulse that had so completely crippled this unit...until only minutes ago.  
  
No matter. The numerical countdown gradually slowed and then finally completed its march, newly repaired infra-red sensors finally able to determine the true depth of the grey lady's present resting place. Morton's silent expression of tentative relief faded, eyes widening with incredulity. "Depth...one-thousand five-hundred and thirteen feet... One thousand five-hundred and thirteen feet!" Despite himself, the Executive Officer's voice had risen, loud enough to be heard and he could all but feel the eyes of the Control Room crew upon him. He dashed away the thin film of sweat that had formed upon his brow. Once, not all that long ago, fifteen hundred and thirteen feet would have been death to a submarine -crush depth- and though Seaview could dive several thousand feet below that old limit in complete safety, normally, the mighty submersible was not at her best. The fact of the matter was that he did not know what fragile Seaview's actual crush depth was right now. He shook his head slowly, whispering. "Can't be right... Vasquez-" The seaman at the Control Room depth gauge regarded the XO uncertainly. "Are you sure this is right?"  
  
"Yes, sir... I mean, I think so..."  
  
"What do you mean you think so?"  
  
"I-I only began training with this detail two weeks ago, sir..." the seaman stammered. "Kowalski was supposed to-" Vasquez stopped, swallowing deeply as a new, sudden silence began to crush in on him. "I mean-"  
  
Morton's fingers tightened visibly on the edge of the console board, his eyes traveling reluctantly to where a familiar watch station remained vacant, as he willed his mask of imperturbability to neither shift nor weaken. "And what about Milner, Kormos, or Walkingman?" he demanded, remembering the names of the technicians he should have been able to expect to have been on this detail.  
  
Vasquez's eyes were downcast, his voice small, when he finally answered. "I...I don't know...sir."  
  
A sharp retort formed on Chip Morton's lips, but was never spoken aloud as he paused, suddenly uncertain. They weren't on the casualty list, so where... He regarded the anxious young seaman who sat waiting for some awful fate to befall him. "Just...just do your best. Carry on." Vasquez nodded in puzzled silence as his executive officer crossed the distance to where Seaview's bulkhead-mounted main computer remained, pulsing with the light of artificial life. There was a single moment's hesitation before he punched in his personal code, instructing the unit to recognize his voice. "Computer, give me the most up to date list of functioning crew members registered as of last watch."   
  
There was a soft whirring sound before the computer's synthesized voice answered, low, mechanical, and slightly feminine. "Request acknowledged. Please stand by." As the computer's mainframe began to hum with increased activity, Morton's eyes narrowed with concentration as he mentally searched the hidden recesses of mind and memory -the familiar niggling itch at the back of his brain had returned with far greater force than it had when he had discussed his fears with the Admiral only a relatively short while ago.  
  
Something was very wrong.  
  
  
  
  
Some time ago, far more years than he cared to admit, an eager red-haired youth named Harriman Nelson had entered the Naval Academy and had had the good fortune to meet a wise instructor who had imparted to him a nugget of information that no text book contained. He had said that when the moment was right, usually in the solitude of a sailor's thoughts, a seaman could attain a oneness with the vessel on which he served and the waters on which she sailed. It was a treasure of knowledge that Nelson had passed on to the captain of this vessel -though Crane was generally too pragmatic a man to accept such a romantic notion as solid fact- and hoped that the Captain of the Seaview would at least one day learn to accept it as he did...because foolishness though the saying might have been, it was nonetheless the truth. He felt for this ship.  
  
Nelson paused, halting in his tracks momentarily as a low groan traveled the length of his stricken submarine, sounding almost like a human moan of anguish. Seaview was not a living being -he made no pretense about that- but she contained lives...and...memories...memories of those who lived...and those who had died. Too many...  
  
Nelson squared his shoulders and continued on his trek, a clipboard detailing each work detail in his hand. Seaview was a wounded ship, a crippled ship, but she was no longer a dying ship. The arduous efforts of her men had seen to that...and were the circumstances normal, her present situation might have been considered an unpleasant, but relatively minor hindrance; a distressing, but not insurmountable difficulty in the course of a cruise not unlike others accounted for in Seaview's ongoing log.  
  
But the situation was far from normal.  
  
The low, distant wail of a laser welding torch met Nelson's ears as he rounded a corner in the long corridor along Officers' Country -another repair detail...another effort being made to repair the chinks in the mighty submersible's armor...would that human flesh were so easily returned to proper order. Within the last two hours, three crewmen had died -two succumbing to their injuries despite Doc's best efforts against the impossible, and Kowalski... He had no idea in Heaven or Hell why he had died. Neither did Doc. The demise of the likable, rough-edged young sailor, who had always shown the potential for a great naval career, had brought the grim tally of inexplicable deaths up to fourteen - and of those, four had been part of the shore party that had reconnoitered the decimated Station Delta and had been attacked there.   
  
Clarke... Tomàs... Riley...Kowalski... Logic indicated a disease, some awful insidious disease, where none appeared to exist. Logic also indicated the transmitting of that disease between crew members, but gave no clue of how ...or who would be next...or why.  
  
Petty Officer First Class Devereaux, who had certifiably never been sick a day in his life, not so much as catching a cold, appeared in every way as healthy as ever, and Captain Crane... Nelson frowned to himself, unwilling to complete the thought, unable not to. As a scientist, he should have been able to see the potentials with cold, clinical detachment -if Crane and Devereaux succumbed, as had the rest of the shore party, the presence of some invisible contagion would be proven beyond any reasonable shadow of a doubt...but as the friend and mentor of the young captain he had seen grow from infancy to manhood, the concept was intolerable...and he refused to accept it, unless he had no other choice.  
  
"Sir!"  
  
Nelson was abruptly brought back to present reality as he all but walked into the solid form of Seaview's galley chief, Cookie, who with a deft movement caught his small burden before it went crashing to the deck. "Uh... Sorry, sir...."  
  
"Never mind, Cookie, it-" Mild puzzlement and gradual comprehension creased the Admiral's brow as regarded the loaded dinner tray that had almost decorated the deck at his feet a moment ago -the covered plates, a Spartan meal at best, apparently untouched- and met the galley chief's distressed face, glancing in the apparent direction from which the man had just come. "The Captain's not eating?"  
  
"No, sir." Cookie glanced down at the tray, well aware of his admiral's stern gaze all the while. "Black coffee's all he'll take."  
  
"For how long?"  
  
For a moment, Cookie looked here, there, and anywhere but at his admiral, unwilling to be the equivalent of a snitch, but having no real choice. "Since...breakfast...yesterday maybe."  
  
"I see..." Nelson had seen many naval cruises and had come to know how even the some of the best trained sailors reacted when faced with overwhelming odds that seemed to lead only to death. Some fought all the harder, some went off the deep-end, and some...some, when they had used up everything they had inside them, just gave up. They stopped caring whether they lived or died. He didn't want to believe... "Give it here," Nelson said finally, the clipboard tucked under his arm as he held out his hands towards the confused galley chief.  
  
"But, sir..." Cookie protested weakly even as he handed over the covered tray. "The Skipper was very specific. He said-"  
  
"I can well imagine what he said," Nelson muttered more to himself than the flustered crewman. "Carry on." Nelson watched as the galley chief disappeared around a bend in the corridor -he was now fully convinced that he was heading towards a confrontation. Doc had recommended that the men keep up their strength -even if there wasn't a sickness aboard, they needed all they had- and he had made it an order...and that meant eating something, didn't it? Either way one interpreted the order, it was not a command that the Captain of the Seaview could take into his head to ignore when the whim took him...and he had the strongest suspicion that Crane hadn't eaten for more than "two days".  
  
Jaw set with determination, the Admiral stopped before Crane's quarters and, perching the tray on one arm, rapped sharply on the synthetic-wood door. "Lee? This is Nelson."  
  
A voice, low, answered. "Come in."  
  
Nelson shuddered involuntarily. Though living and working areas throughout Seaview were kept at generally comfortable temperatures, his skin was suddenly pricked like goose flesh, a definite chill striking him as he entered the quarters of his friend. He gave the digital thermometer on the bulkhead a tentative tap with his forefinger, but the read-out indicated a normal room temperature; no mistake despite the dimmed lamplight, the only illumination lessening the shadow-filled gloom. Nelson set the tray down on the desk. "Lee, I-"  
  
Nelson stopped in mid-sentence, momentarily distracted by what he was seeing, fascinated despite his determination to say what he had decided had to be said. It was, he knew, Lee Crane's practice to exercise in private when duties permitted, as he was doing now. The Captain had shed his uniform shirt, draping it over his covered bunk as he performed a routine that was in many ways more like a stylized dance than an ordinary workout; a routine done in a silence broken only by the sound of breaths being slowly and steadily drawn in rhythm with slow, almost ferally graceful movements; the dance of a mime. But fluid though the movements might have seemed, they were obviously not made without effort. Crane's visage was slightly flushed and the sweat that dampened his hair also trickled down his temples.  
  
T'ai Chi. Nelson recognized the technique when he saw it and accepted its value even though he himself did not practice it, preferring the more traditional calisthenics. Crane had told him once that the oriental exercise was somehow necessary -a kind of peaceful balance to the esoteric martial arts he had been taught in the Secret Forces; techniques that had made it possible for him to kill efficiently and quickly...but could not make him enjoy it.  
  
Another minute passed...two...before the Captain exhaled, cheeks slightly reddened, shoulders moving against a painful kink that the familiar routine had somehow failed to exorcise. He was aware of the Admiral's presence, that he was waiting with great patience, but it was a moment or two longer before he felt himself able to speak freely.  
  
Winded...strange... It had been a long time since the oriental technique had drained him like this. True, as he had predicted, his entire body was stiff and achy from everything he had done to himself since this cruise had begun; some muscles were like twisted knots -there was no surprise in that- but what was surprising was that the exercise hadn't helped as it usually did. Damn... Out of shape. How could he have possibly have come to have allowed himself to have gotten so slack? Especially now. Seaview needed everyone aboard fit and able to give his all to get ship and crew safely home -everyone now that so many had- The flicker of a grimace passed across Lee Crane's countenance. It didn't do himself, or anyone else for that matter, a bit of good to dwell on the dead when the living were trying to stay alive. "Admiral...you wanted to speak to me?"  
  
"I do." The Admiral grabbed a pale blue terrycloth towel draped over Crane's swivel chair and tossed it overhand, Crane catching it with one hand as he started towards the Head. Nelson waited as Crane mopped his dampened brow, face still slightly flushed. "Lee... I assume that you are aware of the order I issued concerning maintaining certain health standards despite our present situation?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Crane admitted, pausing only momentarily as he splashed his face with the blessedly cool water pouring noisily from the faucet of the sink in the Head. He knew where this conversation was going. "I know of it."  
  
"Then I can also assume that you know that no-one is exempt," Nelson stated sternly. "Can I not?"  
  
Crane mopped his face again, a little more refreshed, as he stepped out of the Head. "Yes, sir," he said. "That's true, but-"  
  
Nelson held up a hand for silence, heading off the argument he saw forming. "When I said no exemptions, I meant no exemptions...not even captains who seem intent on punishing themselves for circumstances beyond their control." Nelson glanced at the untouched tray, a vaguely familiar aroma reaching his nostrils. Crane had sat down in the chair across from him ...silent...sullen perhaps...as he ran his fingers through the mass of damp curls on his head, eyes focused not on him but on some distant thought only he could see. "Cookie told me that you aren't eating."  
  
Crane's eyes narrowed with annoyance. "Cookie talks too much."  
  
"Cookie...was following orders." For that Crane had no answer, Nelson noted with a satisfaction that proved only fleeting. "Listen to me, Lee." Crane looked up as Nelson closed the small space between them. "I can't take away the pain that you're feeling and nothing I say will make it pass any faster than it should, but, Lee, you have to understand this -Seaview has lost twenty-eight good men this cruise and she may yet lose more. It may not be fair, but you cannot afford to show weakness right now. The crew needs you to be strong for them if they are not to give up...and that won't happen if you allow yourself to starve to death as some kind of penance."  
  
Crane stared at the crumpled towel within his hands and nodded slowly, reluctantly, as he dumped it on his bunk. "You are...right, of course."  
  
"Of course I am," Nelson said with a hopefully encouraging smile. He removed the cover of the platter and shuddered with comical dismay at the sight of the meal which proved to be some kind of pre-formed chicken covered in an orangy sauce beside a portion of mixed vegetables -the notorious rehydrated Chicken a l'Orange. What was the world coming to when what was almost certainly nutritious could look so insipid? He gestured to the waiting meal. "Lee..?"  
  
Crane shrugged in silent resignation, approaching the meal like a condemned man approaching the gallows. He stared at the dish -sat and stared- for the longest time, fully aware that the Admiral had made no move to leave and was still waiting with arms folded, not so much his superior officer at the moment as he was the figure of a dutiful parent intent on seeing that his child ate what was good for him. Crane jabbed at the chicken with the tines of his fork, grimacing, and then glanced to his side. "Admiral, I am going to eat it."  
  
Nelson raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. "I'm sure you will."  
  
"I'm not a child."  
  
"Good...and I'm sure you'll finish it like an adult."  
  
"Oh for... I'm not that hungry!"  
  
"Eat."  
  
"But-"  
  
"Eat."  
  
For a long, drawn out moment, Crane sat, mouth open to protest louder and further, but little by little, a small beleaguered smile played at the corners of his lips at the sight of the slight grin on Nelson's own mouth, and he shook his head wearily and took a tentative taste. "Good...God," he muttered, his countenance twisting with a comical expression of disgust. "What the hell is this stuff?"  
  
Nelson cocked his head to one side. "Tell me, Lee...do you really want to know?"  
  
Crane regarded the questionable meal and then shook his head slowly. "No."  
  
  
  
  
The smile on Nelson's face, as he shut the door to Crane's cabin behind him, was one of satisfaction and more than a trifle smug. He could have pulled rank...could have simply ordered Crane to do as he was told -and as Captain of the Seaview, Crane would have dutifully obeyed- but this way was better...much better when acting in his capacity as Lee Crane's friend rather than his superior officer. It was something they both preferred to keep apart -the subtle difference between respect between fellow officers and the more personal caring that had come with knowing the man for most of his life...and quite simply put, he liked to win an argument on that level every now and then -especially when it was for Crane's own good even if he didn't know it.  
  
"What..?" Nelson stopped abruptly, one foot in front of the other, and glanced over his shoulder, expecting...what? He didn't know. The corridor was empty...deserted...strange shadows cast by the dull red glow of emergency neons that substituted for the normal lighting system in this area right until the array was repaired.   
Strange shadows...  
  
Something...   
Something about the dull red glow reminded him of...again what? Faint impressions of a dream, a nightmare perhaps, that had fluttered before his mind's eye and then vanished, causing a shudder that traveled from the top to the base of his spine like an icy finger. It was almost as if...almost as if he could "feel" something -the presence of someone close-by...the whisper of cold breath against the skin of his neck, but... Nelson turned and regarded what he realized were his multiply-cast shadows, several dark images of himself seemingly painted at crazy fluid angles on the bulkhead, and scowled deeply to himself before he turned in the direction he had originally intended and headed down the intersecting corridor.  
  
One of the shadows headed down the other.  
  
  
  
  
"Well?"  
  
Blurred shapes, indistinct and shifting, seemed to lay in the middle of a circle of light; a wriggling distorted mass that sharpened as the focus of the stereoscopic electronic microscope was adjusted by a chief medical officer whose lips were drawn into a tight thin line of frustration. Doc stared through the eyepiece a moment longer, eyes smarting and reddened from hours of abusive effort to find what did not appear to be there to be found, and finally stood away from the magnifying device. "Nothing."  
  
Harriman Nelson's rough visage twisted with a grimace of disbelief. "Nothing?"  
  
"I know -it makes no sense." Doc gestured wearily to a row of needle-thin vials of blood mounted within recesses within a cold-storage container; the vacant spot he now filled with a vial bearing the name "Riley, Seaman Stuart." "I've retested the blood samples from the shore and diving parties, and the other crewmen who died 'suspiciously'...and I can find nothing that would indicate that they were ever sick a single day in their lives. Logically, they should all be alive and well."  
  
"So...there's nothing," Nelson said, still incredulous. "No disease at all."  
  
Doc hesitated, looking decidedly uncomfortable, before he responded. "I...never said that, sir."  
  
Nelson's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What do you mean?"  
  
"All I said...was that I couldn't find anything -and yet, all indications are that something is at work on Seaview...but what it is, I don't know -and that's what frightens me." Nelson studied the medical man, questioning in his silence. "Project M.I.N.A.... Dr. Bergman seemed to think that a mutation of the original virus -something that they came to call 'V2'- confounded their scientists... somehow becoming more difficult to detect than its original form."  
  
"And if that was indeed the case," Nelson said with grim understanding, "whatever they created may well be on board Seaview and we wouldn't be able to find it. At least...not until we find the formula for the reagent Dr. Bergman mentioned on the tape. What's the progress in that area, Doc?"  
  
"The medical corps has gone through ten of the potential formulas written in Bergman's notes -they turned out to be useless for anything -red herrings...but we still have eight to go. With our presently compromised equipment, it's going to take time to go through them all, but there's still a good chance that-" Just then, there was the sound of knocking at the medical lab door, and Nelson and Doc fell silent as the door slowly swung open. Doc nodded and went over to his medical computer.  
  
"Sir?" Chip Morton, trailed by an apparently uneasy Chief Sharkey, entered the room, the Executive Officer carrying a clipboard in his hand. "Ah...sir, there may be a problem...with the crew."   
  
Nelson felt the tickling of a thoroughly irrational laugh beginning to inch its way up his throat unbidden -as if there weren't enough problems aboard Seaview right now- and struggled valiantly to suppress it. Like a completely inexplicable case of the giggles at a funeral, there was nothing to laugh about...especially not at the XO's troubled expression. As long as he had known Chip Morton, the young executive officer had been the epitome of military-bred stoicism; a man who usually kept his feelings and fears to himself, but for some reason, for not the first time on this particular cruise, Nelson could read the agitation in the XO's eyes as plainly as if a sign had been posted there. "What is it, Chip? What's the problem?"  
  
"As you know, sir, after the accident, I re-registered every member of the crew personally for an accurate census of survivors -and I've continued to update that; the most recent number being ninety-seven which includes and accounts for deaths and other casualties."  
  
"So..?"  
  
Morton glanced at the clipboard, hesitated, and then handed it over to Nelson. "There's been a problem with crew missing from work details -so I did another update...as of less than an hour ago. I can now account for the whereabouts of only eighty-three crew members at this time though there should still be ninety-seven...and the truly curious thing is, sir, several of the fourteen not accounted for are officers."  
  
Nelson's expression fell blank. "You're certain of this?"  
  
"Sharkey..?" Morton prompted.  
  
"I didn't believe it myself, sir," the Chief Petty Officer said with a puzzled frown darkening his expressive face, "but when Mr. Morton gave me the computer read-out, I checked each and every one of those work details myself -and Officers' Country...an' I can't find any of 'em either. All I can figure is that they're holed up somewheres, hiding or goofing off or something." Sharkey glanced quickly at the officer's pips on Nelson and Morton's collars and added quietly: "Begging your pardons, sirs."  
  
"Of all the times to shirk one's duties..." Nelson muttered to himself, amazed at the conduct of crewmen he thought he had come to know so well -and officers too? He scanned the list, familiar names meeting his eyes -Milner, Kormos, Walkingman, Dietz, Jameson, O'Rourke, Tomlin, Yashida...skilled crewmen everyone, chosen personally either by himself or Captain Crane. Jackson, Torres, Cole, Donewitz, Boyd, Rose...three of them junior officers, one up for promotion to a fully commissioned position. Nelson shook his head with dismay and handed the list back to the waiting XO. "Very well. Set a detail to find them -and don't bother to send them to the Brig...officers as well. I have other things in mind to keep them too busy to-"  
  
"Curse me for a fool!" Nelson, Morton, and Sharkey turned sharply in the direction of the Chief Medical Officer who, until now, had kept himself hunched over the medical lab computer console. As Nelson approached the medical officer, Doc pushed himself away from the glowing monitor, the wheels of his swivel chair creaking ever so slightly as he gestured to the digital images flashing by on the screen. "I can't believe I could have possibly missed something as important as this and yet, it makes sense!"  
  
"Get a hold of yourself, Doc," Nelson cautioned. "What makes sense?"  
  
"A common denominator, sir, in the 'unexplained' deaths..."  
  
"Then...then it's not a matter of some new plague?" Nelson asked, puzzled.  
  
"Unfortunately, Admiral, I still believe there's something new aboard, but this time, I believe I can tell why some have been affected...and some haven't. It's not much, but it's a start." Doc's fingers alternated between dancing quickly over the recessed computer keys and clicking the computer's mouse, images flashing across the monitor's flat screen, one after the other, in rapid succession. "The scientists at Delta were searching for an artificial genetically-based antigen or vaccine against cancer -and, in a way....I think they found both more and less than what they expected."  
  
"The V1 version of the virus," Nelson concurred, glancing at Morton and Sharkey who stood there, still waiting. "But what-"  
  
"It occurred to me that the experiment went out of control after the Andropov stopped at the base...and brought with them what appears to have been the Asian Flu." A computer simulation of that flu virus appeared on the screen. "I think that was the true catalyst for Delta's outbreak of their plague -station staff and scientists contracted the flu, weakening their immune systems, leaving them wide-open to the introduction of the new virus when the accident released it en masse...a virus which had recently mutated into a new, virulent strain. The physical weakening may even have been necessary for the mutated virus to gain access to their bodily systems. The circumstances seem to bear the theory out."  
  
"But the initial test team..." Nelson said, almost protesting. "They wouldn't have been infected if that were so. The experiment which altered their genetic natures and eventually killed them occurred before the Andropov's arrival."  
  
Doc shook his head vigorously, a man possessed by the dark muse of grim inspiration. "Delta was working on and with conventional contagions in other areas of the facility, I believe." Nelson nodded in confirmation. "In times not very distantly past, some of the best stateside disease containment facilities have been known to have failed in some degree without the fact being noticed before something escaped -that outbreak of smallpox eleven years ago in Colorado, for instance. It was very likely that the test team's immune systems had already been compromised -the common cold or something like that...something so brief and seemingly insignificant that no-one would have bothered to mention it or think of it as a problem. There."  
  
An electronic beep issued sharply from the computer console, an image appearing under the file heading: "Seaview Medical Files." "And now I think I know why the mutant virus attacked certain crew members and not others." At a click, several file windows popped up on the screen, Doc slumping back into his seat. "I recently treated Tomàs for food poisoning. Clarke had recently gotten over a case of the measles he caught from his children while on shoreleave. Riley came to me for treatment for a viral condition contracted also while on shoreleave. Kowalski recently suffered from cluster headaches due to neck strain and had a hand injury which he had allowed to turn septic before he came to have it treated... All of these conditions would have weakened their immune systems in some way -as did different conditions for each of the other victims of 'unexplained deaths', I'll wager...and yet, I could find no..." Doc shook off the transient confusion with a slight shudder and then met the Admiral's eyes. "Of the shore party, the only exceptions were Devereaux, whom I can vouche has never been sick a day in his life and was not recently injured -not severely at any rate, and-"  
  
"Crane!" Nelson laughed aloud as though a great and terrible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "He wasn't sick before the attack -he wouldn't have been infected therefore!"  
  
Just then, there was a sudden, loud crash; the sound of hard plastic and metal hitting the smooth deck. Nelson and Doc turned sharply to see Morton, his countenance suddenly pale with horror, the clipboard at his feet where he had suddenly dropped it, his mouth working silently like a masterless marionette. "Oh, Jesus, no..." he whispered, his voice returning shakily. "Crane...Lee -he was sick. Very sick -the flu. He told me it was... I didn't think... I promised him to keep it to myself."  
  
Nelson stared at the mortified executive officer for only a moment, an instant that felt as though it had been stretched into an eternity, before he flung the door to the lab wide open and dashed through the opening, his face blanched white with horror.  
  
  
  
  
He had tried. He had really tried.  
  
The greater part of the meal that the Admiral had insisted he eat remained on the plate on the Captain's desk as Crane leaned against the doorjamb of the entrance to his personal Head, his face distorted, damp, and pale as he fought back the wracking dry heaves that kept telling his brain that he wanted...no...needed to be physically ill again even though there wasn't anything left inside him to expel. The food had gone in his mouth, but it wouldn't stay. Wouldn't even though his stomach burned with hunger and his mouth with thirst. Thirst...  
  
Crane's eyes immediately went to the glass beside the tray. He had drained six full glasses of water like that only minutes ago to quench a thirst that only grew and now he needed more. Much more. The room seemed to sway as he lurched over to the vessel and the carafe beside it, but the pitcher proved empty...and though he knew that all it would take was a turn of the faucet to get more, he was suddenly possessed by an inexplicable, overwhelming fury which had him bring his fist down on the drained glass with a strength he did not know he possessed.  
  
He saw the glass shatter under the blow as if from a great distance, bits of red-stained crystal flying in all directions, before he felt the pain. Crane brought his injured wrist up before his eyes, thoughts of rage suddenly gone as he stared...just stared at the glistening blood trickling from the wounds and at the shard of glass imbedded deeply in the lean flesh before the heel of his hand. A hiss of pain escaped his lips as with trembling fingers he shakily grasped the shard and pulled it out. Immediately, more of the sanguine fluid welled up to the surface, pulsing in time with the beating of his heart...and still, he stared. It was a bad cut...a very bad cut...likely to need stitches. Doc would want to-  
  
Without warning, the intolerable thirst welled up within the Captain's breast, rearing up like an angry viper, as he clamped his mouth over the wound, the metallic fluid leeking over his tongue as he sank to his knees and onto the deck, his entire being centered on that one consuming act -to thirst...to feed.  
  
"No!" Realization, true awareness of what he was doing, came in a sudden, painful jolt that sundered the perverse bliss as brutally as a bucket of ice-water thrown in his face. Madness gave way to revulsion and horror as Crane released the injured limb and stared at the wound, still bleeding, and became aware of the metallic taste in his mouth, the warm wetness that trailed down his chin...and in that instant, came new knowledge, a logic born of insanity.  
  
He knew...he knew at that moment what Station Delta had truly created. The Devil's children -beings that could not get sick, could not bear the light of day and thrived at night, who had strength beyond normal human ken, and did not eat...but they thirsted. Captain Hudson had said so, hadn't he? Memories came...disjointed and crazed now...of bodies not huddled together for comfort -he knew that as he hadn't before. No...they had been too busy fighting, attacking each other to seek refuge even though there was likely none to be had. Attacking each other for...  
  
The wound in Crane's wrist had begun to leak down his forearm, the blood trailing along the skin until the trail began to drip downwards, a red pool gathering on the smooth deck...the answer staring him right in the face and he had been too blind to accept that he saw it...maybe they all had been.   
  
Project M.I.N.A....M.I.N.A....Mina...not a code -a name...the name of a girl in a story he had recently read, proving Fate's macabre sense of humor...a girl, no, a woman who had been forced to drink the blood of her demonic attacker, infecting her with his evil nature. Could the answer have been so ridiculously plain that no-one had bothered to take the possibility seriously?  
  
The blood... Blood had gone missing from the medical stores -still not found...Captain Hudson -maddened and attacking with his teeth...Tomàs and Clarke -ripping and tearing at each other...Riley -biting and drawing blood even as he died...Kowalski -frenzied to the point of biting his own tongue, attacking Patterson with a blade...himself- Crane clenched his teeth, the viperous thirst rearing up again as he stared at the carmine pool. The blood -that was what it had been all along...what each and every maddened victim had tried to get at one way or another...what he-  
  
Crane gasped as the thirst became raw pain, something...some thing trying to reach the surface of his being. He recognized the pain from an old memory, an old madness he had once felt and had tried to forget; a familiar bloodthirst that had now become a thirst for blood. But there was still a part of him that was Lee Crane, Captain of the S.S.R.N. Seaview, and that fading part knew what his duty was and what he had to do. The crew...he could not...would not hurt them. No...he wouldn't...They... They all had to be warned...protected from him... Protected...from this plague. They had to know what the scientists at Station Delta had really created. He had to tell the Admiral -he would know what to do, always seemed to... A maddened laugh, almost a feral growl, issued from Crane's mouth. Yes...Admiral Nelson -he would...he would understand...always a scientist at heart...a heart which pumped warm, living blood that...  
  
"No..." For an instant, Lee Crane had seemed to cease to exist or matter, something else taking his place -something that thirsted. There wasn't much time... Crane shook his head, struggling to clear it for just a little longer. He was beginning to feel weak...more blood lost than he had realized...dizziness threatening to overwhelm him before he finished what had to be done. Had to warn them in the only way left to him... Crane extended his hand as the deck became his palate and the blood on his trembling fingers, his paint as he struggled to scribe the warning, but even as he tried, the word...the proper word slipped from his mind, ethereal as quicksilver, and so, he used the next best thing...  
  
...and when oblivion finally came, he welcomed it.  
  
  
  
  
Morton and Sharkey followed in hot pursuit, Doc close behind them, as Nelson bounded the turns in a corridor that had suddenly become too long, the distance between the medical lab and the Captain's cabin somehow seeming to stretch on forever. Harriman Nelson was a man consumed by an overwhelming dread unlike any he had ever known or believed existed...until now. At Morton's words, there had been no room for logical thought...only fear of what he had refused to believe and now had no choice but to accept -Crane had been sick. Very sick.  
  
Even as the door to the Captain's cabin was flung open with a splintering crash, they could all smell the blood...and see it -on the deck, on bits of shattered glass strewn all around, and amongst all of this, a body lying there, very still. Doc reached the Captain first, and tried to press the edges of a gaping wound in his wrist closed with his fingers. "He's still alive!" Doc barked, feeling a weak, thready pulse. "Get those corpsmen in here now!"  
  
It all happened so fast. Nelson felt himself grasp for the edge of the Captain's desk, dizziness reaching for him as an invisible bubble seemed to descend upon him, numbing his perceptions, distancing him somehow from what he could scarcely bear to accept...the realization of a nightmare he had forgotten. As corpsmen loaded their stricken captain onto a gurney, Nelson turned to follow, only half noticing the smeared remnants of what appeared to be some kind of a warning scribed by a shaky hand onto the deck in blood...a single word.  
  
Unclean.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Nelson regarded Sharkey through weariness-reddened eyes. "Francis?"  
  
Chief of the Boat returned the look uncomfortably. "You know...there is a chance that we got to him in time."  
  
Nelson nodded slowly, the sense of defeat in him obvious to anyone, but he did not answer aloud -he did not trust himself not to voice his fears...and destroy the hope onto which the Chief Petty Officer apparently held...or the ember of hope he himself held onto so dearly. In time...what did that mean in the face of something no-one really understood? The medical team had gotten Seaview's stricken commanding officer to the Sick Bay -Doc was working on him now- but whether all the efforts were "in time", no-one could know. It was taking too long.  
  
The soft rustle of medical garb alerted the two men to the presence of Seaview's chief medical officer as he emerged from the treatment area of the Sick Bay, his face lined and grey. Nelson and Sharkey rose as he approached them, Nelson glancing uncertainly at his chief petty officer before speaking. "Well?"  
  
Doc sighed aloud. "I don't know what to do for him. As with the others, the wounds are relatively superficial in as much as they were easily treated -and the blood seems to check out normal...but at the same time, there's no way that it can be normal. There's no sign of contagion-flu or otherwise- but his body is reacting as if there was something...some kind of infection or toxin there though there isn't -his white-cell count is going through the roof. The Captain's body is trying to fight a phantom disease...and he's losing. He's burning out." Doc's expression was one of anguish. "We have got him stabilized for the moment, but I don't know for how long. Kowalski and Riley both apparently seemed to stabilize for a short while just before-"  
  
Nelson did not hear the rest of what the Chief Medical Officer had to say -as if a part of him believed that not hearing would change an inevitable outcome. It was as if the awful weight that he had carried since the horrors of this mission had begun, had suddenly grown several-fold. He and Crane had faced death together many times -until now, he had never really accepted it. It had never truly seemed real. "I...I want to see him."  
  
There was a pause, an instant of hesitation before the medical officer nodded his assent. "All right."  
  
Nelson did not look to either side as he walked forward, but he could sense that Sharkey had followed his lead though from a small distance. It was not a matter of fear that held the Chief Petty Officer back...no, Nelson knew that the Chief knew him well enough to know when he needed to be alone...as he did now. Nelson hesitated as he approached the Captain's bedside, noticing that though Crane was unconscious, he was nonetheless strapped down, medical restraints effectively immobilizing him were he awake to fight them. Why...why the restraints at all? What had Doc not told him about Crane's condition?  
  
Just then as if in answer to Nelson's unspoken question, Crane stirred, moaning slightly in a restless delirium, before he slowly opened his eyes, squinting as if the curiously softer light of the area around his bed hurt them. Confusion and fear were etched into the pallid face, eyes staring and unfocussed until they met those of his admiral and sharpened a little. For a moment, Crane stared as if he did not recognize the man before him and then... "Admiral..."  
  
"Lee..." Nelson felt the lies, both to himself and his friend, form in his brain. "We...we got to you in time. Doc's working very hard on the cure -you'll be all right." He grasped Crane's limp hand. "I swear it!"  
  
Crane shook his head feebly, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks as if waking was the last thing he had wanted. "No...Oh no..." he whispered, his eyes suddenly wide with horror. "I...know... I know now... The message..." He swallowed deeply, chest heaving. "Got to...to kill me...before it's...too late... I... I don't want...to hurt you... Please!"  
  
Nelson shook his head with disbelief at his friend's delirium-induced words. Why kill him? Why? "Lee -you don't know what you're saying. It-" Just then, Nelson cried out involuntarily as the hand in his own suddenly gripped him with an impossible, crushing strength. "Doc!" It was a strange thing how the human mind dealt with the intolerable messages it sometimes received. Time suddenly seemed to slow to a crawl as Nelson felt himself pushed aside as Doc and the other corpsmen in the Sick Bay rushed to tend to the suddenly convulsing captain who, despite his former weakness, showed every sign of freeing himself with a frenzied strength that seemed to grow with every movement of the hands of a clock... And just as suddenly, it was over. The invisible bubble seemed to pop, time resuming its natural course, and Nelson saw Doc pulling white bedsheets over a still body.  
  
The Chief Medical Officer noticed his admiral's blank, numb stare and walked over to him, his eyes downcast. "I'm sorry."  
  
Nelson nodded dumbly, the walls of the room seeming to close in on him for a moment, before he could speak at all. "I know." He stared at the covered bed, the invisible weight all but crushing him now, his voice a mere whisper. "Take care of him."  
  
Doc watched his admiral leave the room blindly like an automaton, before he approached the equally stricken chief petty officer. "Stay with him, Sharkey."  
  
Sharkey could only nod.  
  
  
  
  
Mental images of the smiling faces of those he had known and cared for appeared before Francis Sharkey's mental eye as he made his way along the seemingly endless corridor, his own burden of grief all but overwhelming him. He had always known, as did any naval man, that the payment for one's dedication to the Service might be one's life...but he had thought that such was a debt to be paid only by the older sailor...one who had lived his life -a time and experience-toughened old salt like himself- not sailors who were little more than kids. Not Riley, or Kowalski, or the young captain he had all but revered. Not them. God... Not them.  
  
Doc had told him to stay with the Admiral...to be there for him, but that had proven a thing easier said than done. Grief-stricken though he might have been, if Nelson did not wish to be found, he would make it difficult to be found. From A-Deck to C-Deck to the lesser places shown only on blueprints had Sharkey gone and this was his second circuit around the ship. It was something he felt that he had to do alone. The news of the Captain's passing had all but flown around the great submersible and the Skipper was a man both loved by some and respected deeply by others -the crew was too busy dealing with its own shock, grief, and myriad duties to be of much help to him right now -Sharkey paused and slammed his fist against the wall- even were that not the case, it wouldn't have made any difference. Like he had decided -this was something he preferred to do alone. He had to find-  
  
Sharkey turned sharply at the sound of a hard object hitting the deck in the near distance and followed the sound to its source, realizing as he did, that he had searched for his admiral along this way earlier...along Officers' Country. A slightly puzzled frown creased the Chief's brow as he came upon the Captain's cabin, its door unlocked and slightly ajar, light coming from within. The Guard of Honor couldn't have been placed already...could it? There was still so much to do. Sharkey opened the door a little wider and peered inside.  
  
To the Chief Petty Officer's surprise, within the Captain's cabin, Admiral Nelson was stooping on the deck, picking up an electric clock with exaggerated gentleness and was placing it on the Captain's desk. He frowned and looked up as he became aware of Sharkey's presence, his manner shaky, his eyes reddened. "What are you doing here, Chief?" he asked, his voice ragged.  
  
"Doc told me he wanted me to-" Sharkey stopped in mid-sentence as he caught sight of Crane's dress uniform, draped on the neatened bunk with great care where Nelson had apparently placed it. In truth, the dreadful evidence of Crane's madness no longer existed, the blood and the glass cleared away scrupulously -it was almost as if the horrible incident had never occurred at all... then Sharkey saw the cleaning implements -a mop, a bucket, and other things- propped in one corner of the room and the fact that the Admiral's shirtsleeves were rolled up his arms, and realized who it was that had strived so hard to make it seem that way. "Oh...sir... You... You don't have to do all that. I'll get some crewmen and the Guard of Honor will-"  
  
"No!" Nelson snapped, his chest heaving, his face flushed, as he shook his head vigorously. "No..." he said again, more quietly, the tremor in his voice all the more pronounced. "I...I'll do it. They...they'll get it all wrong...make a mess of things...always do. No...you stay there. I'll do it."  
  
"Aye, sir." Sharkey looked on helplessly as the Admiral continued with his self-imposed task, sweat dripping from the man's brow onto the deck at his knees. At times like this, more than any other, the Chief Petty Officer wished that he could equal the intellect of many of the men with which he served because while he did not consider himself stupid, he knew that he had neither the skill nor sophistication to say the words...the right words...that would offer the comfort the Admiral needed...the words that would make everything all right again. His friend was in agony and he didn't know what to say.  
  
Nelson stood up, his movement causing him to back into the Captain's bunkside table and a hardbound book that had been lying on it fell to the deck open-faced. Nelson stood, frozen, seemingly uncertain as to what to do, as Sharkey automatically knelt and picked up the tome that was now revealed to be a photo album -a memory book- the photograph on the open page causing him to frown with bewilderment and then gradual comprehension. The image was one of a young naval officer and his bride on their wedding day; the Admiral there with them as a younger man -a lieutenant, their best man. Sharkey recognized the groom's face -an almost identical twin to one he knew so well though the trim of the man's hair was somewhat old-fashioned by present standards. "The...Skipper's father?"  
  
"Yes..." Nelson took the book from the Chief very gently, his countenance clouded. "He was my best friend long before Captain Crane was even born. He died young...far too young...in the line of duty." Nelson turned another page listlessly. There, another picture was revealed -that of the couple and their infant son on the day of his christening. "He was...always a very serious, very intense man -when he asked me to be Lee's godfather..." Nelson saw the puzzled frown form on Sharkey's brow. "When he asked me to be Lee's godfather, he made me promise that if anything were to happen to him, that I would look out for his son -not to shield him from the world as such- just to be there for him. He said that though Lee's mother would love and guide her child as only mothers can, he had always believed that a boy needed a father's love and instruction...and I tried. I did try."  
  
Sharkey shook his head slowly. "You and the Skipper... I didn't know..."  
  
"You wouldn't. Very few do," Nelson said, understanding Sharkey's confusion immediately. "We both agreed that it would be better that way. You see, I knew... I always knew that Lee had a... special raw talent, a gift that the Navy could put to best use and I never wanted it said that any triumph or accolade accorded him was by anything but his own skills -and none of them were. He did it all by his own merits." Nelson let the book fall shut, his chest heaving, his face working as the warm salted water finally reached his eyes, and sank down onto the swivel chair. "My God... What am I going to tell his mother..?" At that moment, the dam finally broke and all that the Chief could do was to wait and be there as sobs unbidden wracked the Admiral's hunched frame even though he tried to hide them even now. It occurred to the Chief then that until that moment, he had never before seen the Admiral cry.  
  
Nelson drew a heavy, ragged breath, swallowing deeply, as he struggled to regain his composure. He shakily searched through one of his breast pockets and pulled out a scrap of slightly crumpled note paper. "You know, Francis..." he said, a small sad smile on his lips, "I gave everything for the Service and scientific pursuit -any chance at a normal life, a wife, children...and I did it by choice. No-one forced me. What they asked, I gave...and when we get back home, eventually, they will ask for the bodies of those that died -for study. Lee Crane was my friend... He was my..." Nelson shuddered and swallowed deeply. "He was my son...by all but birth -and they would cut up his body with as little regard as they would a common lab rat." Nelson's expression hardened. "I'll see them in Hell first."  
  
The Admiral handed the partially crumpled paper to the Chief who studied it, face blank with incomprehension. "This...this is a cremation unit...sir."  
  
"I know. I want you to give the plans to Mr. Morton. We have the capacity and the technical stores to create it. The design is fairly simple...and I want it done by the end of this watch." Nelson turned his back to Sharkey, seeming to study a bulkhead-mounted photograph of the Seaview. "Carry on."  
  
  
  
  
It was done.  
  
There had been little more left to say.  
  
After his dismissal, after it had become clear that the Admiral had no intention of discussing the matter any further, Sharkey had had no choice but to take the design and the orders to the acting captain. Mister Morton, his own countenance etched with lines of anguish, had merely taken the message and note with a small nod, saying: "I'll...get right on it."  
  
The rest was a blur, Sharkey remembering only that he was now in his quarters, alone, and even though he wanted to, he felt too dead inside to cry.  
  
  
  



	3. 3

7  
  
  
  
The Seaview had become a plague ship...of that there was no longer any doubt. Despite the fact that her crew still worked to repair her, their brows damp from effort and anxiety, a sense of impending doom had settled upon them; the fear of who would succumb next or if on their minds every waking moment. They had fought many battles, known dangers of which few could imagine, but none so great as that which they could not see. It was easy to flex one's muscles and act the part of the macho warrior when one's enemy stood as a solid, tangible being, but how could one duke it out with a disease? The answer was terribly simple -one couldn't.  
  
Sparks sighed heavily as he caught sight of the black arm band of mourning, that everyone wore, out of the corner of his eye as he directed a needle-thin beam of laser light against hair-like wires, one by one, within the radio console within the Conn's Radio Shack. He was tired -several times, he was certain, he had seen double-images and mental ghosts that disappeared with a shake of his head as he pressed himself to make this contentious unit work -but he didn't want to give in to sleep... Nightmares dwelt in that realm...and hard work allowed him to ignore the fact that he was afraid...afraid of a growing unknown.  
  
Glass fibres melted and fused in their appropriate spots as the needle-thin laser beam bored in on them, guided by his hand, his brow furrowing as he tried another dial or pressed another button, adjusting frequencies, expecting as little to come from this effort as had come from countless others. "What..?" Sparks pressed a hand to the earphone of the headset he wore, eyes widening with disbelief. "Mr. Morton!"  
  
A puzzled frown creased Chip Morton's brow as he was about to sign one more in a seemingly endless progression of repair detail reports...frowning not because the repair details were not making any headway in getting this downed vessel a little closer to being ship-shape -they were- but because he was not entirely certain that his name had been called at all, so deeply in his private world of thought had he been...but... "Mr. Morton!" came the voice of the agitated radio operator. "I think I'm getting something!"  
  
Morton strode over to the Radio Shack amidst the low buzz of crewmen's voices, barely aware of the sound. Sparks was sitting at his console, hand still pressed against the earpiece of his headset, his expression wavering between excitement and anxiety or wonder and frustration as he made some adjustments to various dials and buttons on the radio console with his free hand. "The reception's pretty...garbled, sir," he said uneasily, seeing Morton's approach out of the corner of his eye. "We can only receive, not send, and I think we're actually getting two signals overlapping into one, but...ah..." He made a final adjustment. "Skimmers...icebreakers -the S.S. Wodenkind from Germany and the S.S. Gandreid from Norway...civilian research ships. They were both sent to investigate what they figure were three massive earthquakes or volcanic eruptions in the south polar regions."  
  
"The explosions..." Morton murmured, his voice low. "Voyageur's, Delta's, and ours..."  
  
"Yes, sir," Sparks said, concurring, his eyebrows knitting together with frustration as the signals were suddenly swamped by electronic noise, fading in and out before they became steady and almost clear again. "Could be, sir, but their skippers are being instructed to break off their surveys... to scrub their missions."  
  
"What!" Morton snapped, his face blank with disbelief. "By whom?"  
  
Sparks mirrored his executive officer's incredulity as he listened to the now weak, overlapping signals that traveled through a wall of static before they reached his console. He pressed the earphone closer to his ear, listening, but not believing what he was hearing. "By... InterAllied Fleet Commander Carter James Thomas, sir. The Wodenkind's skipper is radioing his government for further instructions before he makes a move one way or another and the skipper of the Gandreid is about to do the same."  
  
"I see." The ballpoint pen with which Morton was to sign the progress report snapped cleanly between Morton's fingers, staining the digits with blue ink -he didn't notice ...wouldn't have cared if he had. In the instant it had taken for him to digest the new information, incredulity had metamorphosed into seething anger; an anger which he held in check by force of will alone. Orders were orders -he knew that- and the naval officer that he was accepted that. That was his training... his way. For the most part, there was usually some wisdom behind a superior's orders, but human man that he was, the order left him feeling...betrayed. He knew that for once and for all that he and his crew were actually on their own for the duration -by InterAllied's orders.  
  
By and by, the tide of all too human anger receded, and the Executive Officer saw that the radio operator was waiting, disbelieving like himself, for any further orders. "Sparks... you've got to get that transmitter working again. Use whatever stores we have -cannibalize whatever works in the Flying Sub if you must- but get that radio operational!"  
  
"Aye, sir!" Sparks responded smartly and then hesitated, suddenly uncertain. "Uh... Mister Morton, sir, what about InterAllied's orders -the radio-silence and all?"  
  
"Orders..." Morton muttered. "InterAllied can go-" The Executive Officer caught himself, closing his eyes for a moment against the tide of anger that once again threatened to overwhelm him -it remained behind his carefully constructed mental walls, unseen and unheard. He sighed aloud and again met the young radio operator's eyes. "Just...follow the orders I gave you. I'll deal with InterAllied's upper echelons of command later."   
  
  
  
  
Perhaps there was still time.  
  
A thin film of sweat beaded up on corpsman Thibideau's brow as he quickly ducked into the shadowy recess of the corridor in which he stood waiting as a group of Seaview's crewmen walked past without noticing his presence -a repair detail whose members talked with low, almost nervous tones as though whispering might allow a grim fate to pass them by unnoticed. The best of luck to them, Thibideau thought wryly and then grimaced slightly as his hand brushed against the inactivated incendiary device he had stolen from the ship's stores, now laying in the bottom of a pocket of the general-issue crewman's uniform he had stolen from a Sick Bay locker...or borrowed. It all depended on what happened next...and he had to work fast. Seaview's medical corps members had been distracted, by some sort of medical emergency as far as he knew, at the time that he had slipped away, but it wouldn't be long before they noticed that he was gone -if they hadn't already.  
  
A man in a coma didn't usually just get up and walk away. Or did he? That was a possibility that he hadn't explored. Thibideau's free hand bunched into a fist, tightening until his fingertips imbedded themselves against the soft flesh of his palm, pressing further and deeper until welts of purple and blue appeared and spread on the bunched skin. The corpsman's lips tightened into a grimace. The pain was real. The blood was real. He was real...and alive. With a job, a duty to perform.  
  
The map of Seaview's interior appeared before Thibideau's mental sight, providing him with a guide to where he had to go. In silence, he had listened to scuttlebutt whispered between Seaview's corpsmen -of how the bodies of the Seaview's fallen men were to be cremated, their ashes cast to the waters. In silence, he had finally decided that he could no longer take any chances. A cremation was not part of the naval way and chances were good that the powers-that-be on this ship would change their minds...and if they did that, the Sickness -and worse- would continue to spread. He had witnessed that progression before -he didn't want to again.   
  
Thibideau fingered the hidden incendiary device. Fire -white plasma fire- was the only way to be certain it didn't. Thibideau dismissed the mental image. Whispered rumors had told him where to go. The map showed him the way.  
  
  
  
  
"You have to be kidding! We're almost finished here!"  
  
"I know. I'm sorry. I-I just have to get some air."  
  
The hatch to the containment room slammed shut, its dog wheel being spun from outside until there was familiar click and the sound of fading footsteps. Corpsman Roderiguez stared at the hatchway door as the anger in his young visage faded, slowly replaced by an expression of sympathy. He understood. Despite what Gill might have been thinking right now, he did understand. They had been friends for far too long not to know when the other one was hurting -a friendship that he had decided was too precious to lose over a girl that had told each of them that he was the only one. He would tell Gill that once he returned. Life was too tenuous to waste in anger -his present duty served only to remind him of that truth.  
  
Roderiguez walked through the doorway that led to the containment room's inner chamber. There, large refrigerated cubicles usually meant for keeping samples of larger marine life specimens were temporarily being employed for another purpose. This room had become a sepulcher and the cubicles contained the dead. A soft electronic hum permeated the bulkheads here; a sound that indicated that the units were functioning; a cold ether automatically pumping into each cubicle to protect their contents from cellular breakdown -in this case, until they were consumed by fire.  
  
There was only one body left to finish preparing...the others already having been attended. Roderiguez saw the logic in his being assigned this grim duty -as a civilian, he had once worked in a mortuary, but that made the task no more pleasant or easy...especially as a queasy Gill had finally succumbed to vertigo. There was to be no embalming, no surgical cosmetic procedures -the chance of infection or contamination made that an impossibility, but Seaview's fallen would be attended properly. He would see to that.  
  
Roderiguez hesitated and then pressed himself to continue forward as he came upon his last "patient", aware as he did that he had been trying to avoid this moment himself -when this part was complete, it was all done...finished with a frightening sense of finality. The corpsman shook his head slightly and studied the body laid out on the palate before him with a mixture of grim fascination and regret. The Sickness, whatever it was, seemed to have performed a macabre work of cosmetic magic on this one...on all of the Sickness' victims. Kowalski, Riley, Tomàs, Clarke, the Captain, the others -it was the same.  
  
The Captain's serene, apparently sleeping visage was pale, that was true, but only a little paler than in life -the skin an almost uniform living hue with the slightest flush at the lips and cheeks. There was no livid pallor of corruption upon the body and rigor had somehow yet to set in -the limbs were still flexile and the skin supple to the touch; cooler than in life, also true, but nearly warm. It was that way with all of the victims...unlike those who had died for other reasons. The final effect was one of mannequin-like perfection and beauty...a damned cruel illusion. The phantom virus had left no marks.  
  
Corpsman Roderiguez sighed heavily as he finished buttoning the jacket of the Captain's finest dress uniform, completing the illusion that his late commanding officer was merely in some kind of deep sleep and, as carefully as he was able, placed the body back into the preservation chamber where it was to stay...in this mausoleum. It seemed that with the Captain's death, an even deeper pall had settled over the Seaview and her crew. Roderiguez's assignment to Seaview had been a recent one and he had not known Captain Crane before that except by reputation, but he had found himself supposing, like the rest of the crew, that their almost legendary young commanding officer would have been somehow immune...somehow impervious to this phantom illness that was sweeping them. Would that it had been so...for if even a living legend could be killed, what about an average crewman like himself?  
  
Roderiguez frowned at the small, sharp sound of metal hitting the deck and saw the small reflection of the room's ceiling lamps glinting off shimmering gold...the Captain's signet ring. According to anyone he had spoken to on Seaview, Crane was never seen without it. Roderiguez retrieved the ring and slipped it back onto the Captain's finger. He was a practical, non-superstitious man and didn't recognize the belief that the dead would not rest well if their treasured possessions were not interred with them, but at the same time- "Jesus!" Roderiguez cried out as the Captain's hand suddenly clenched, grasping his own in a vise of iron and then relaxed, releasing him just as quickly. The corpsman staggered back a step, his chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths. Post... Post mortem muscle contraction...that's what it had been.   
  
The corpsman chided himself silently as his racing heart gradually resumed its normal rhythm. What was with him? He had been taught of such...he had seen such things before, and he should have known better than to react this way. Roderiguez shook his head wearily. Then again ...few were quite themselves lately.  
  
Scuttlebutt had it that Admiral Nelson himself wasn't acting normally either and that he had taken the Captain's death far worse than any of the other victims. Why else would the Admiral have gone completely against traditional naval protocol and (scuttlebutt had it) presidential orders and ordered that all of Seaview's dead be given a funeral and then cremated? He didn't know. He didn't want to know.  
  
Roderiguez shut the cubicle and then tagged it -Crane, Captain Lee B.- glad, in a way, to have finally completed the unenviable task, and walked from the inner chamber to the ante-room where a report was waiting to be filled. Though he was an atheist among a family of staunch Roman Catholics, a definite unease had laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder...an unease that amazingly had precious little to do with plagues or sicknesses of any kind and everything to do with simply being surrounded by the dead; a ridiculous unease that left him troubled enough to drop report and clipboard to the deck at his feet when he heard a dull thump and the shuffling of feet.  
  
"Gill?" Why his partner had used the other hatch to the containment room, he had no idea. Roderiguez strode towards the entrance to the containment room proper. "Quit screwing around, man! We've got a report to fill and Doc's gonna be pissed if we don't-" The corpsman stopped in mid-sentence, incredulous. "What the- Who are you! What are you-" The red-haired stranger in a Seaview crewman's uniform looked up sharply, a cornered rat, holding some sort of small metal box that dangled wires in his hand. Roderiguez was not a munitions expert, but he knew an incendiary device when he saw one, and as the startled stranger moved from the shadows that masked his face, Roderiguez realized that he knew the man's identity, when he saw it, too. "All right, Captain Canuck...hand over the device and you won't get yourself hurt..."  
  
Thibideau's eyes darted nervously to the incendiary device in his hand -an idea poorly conceived and badly executed by a panicked man -what had he been thinking? And yet, he had been so close... A small, weak smile touched his lips as he regarded his would-be captor. Escape or capture -those were the choices...and capture always seemed to be the least acceptable of the two. "Comprendez-vous 'catch'?" The small unit of wires and metal flew from the corpsman's hand towards the waiting Roderiguez just as Thibideau had thrown it just before he took to his feet in the opposite direction...but though escape, even a temporary one, was his present goal, it was a goal that he wasn't likely to attain. Though his catatonia had been grossly exaggerated, the weakness of his limbs betrayed how long he had been out of action. The spirit was indeed willing, but the flesh was- Thibideau cried out as he felt himself grabbed around the legs, held in a football tackle, as the cold deck suddenly loomed up before him and he felt a sudden, crashing pain before he saw the stars...and blackness.  
  
Roderiguez pushed himself to his feet, his chest heaving, his eyes all but glued to the unmoving figure of the intruder sprawled on the deck before him. He knew the man -he knew his face, at least- but he neither knew nor cared how a coma patient had suddenly gotten up, walked, and tried to -what- sabotage the ship? Set the whole containment room ablaze? And for what? Didn't know. Didn't care. All that mattered was that now it wouldn't happen.  
  
Roderiguez picked up the incendiary device, regarding it with suspicion -this thing could have taken out the whole bulkhead, and maybe more, if the man hadn't been stopped -a buddy in munitions had told him about such possibilities often enough for him to know that much. What had the man been thinking? Roderiguez set the unit down and stumbled towards the open hatchway and signaled to the two crewmen he saw at the end of the corridor. "Yo! Bingham! March! Fore and center, you two!" The two crewmen hesitated, glanced at each other, and obeyed with no little reluctance as they approached the hatchway door. No-one really believed that the containment procedures were of any real worth, did they? If there was a disease aboard, surely everyone had been exposed by now... But there was some comfort in feeling that the phantom illness everyone knew was on board could be contained in this room...and this was too close. Much too close. All of this Roderiguez could read in his crewmates' faces, but he found had little time or patience for any of it at the moment. "Get this joker down to the lock-up in the Sick Bay! And keep an eye on him!" Blank looks answered the order. "On the double!"  
  
Bingham and March bent to their job with barely muted grumbles about someone throwing his weight around, as they lifted the dead weight that was the unconscious corpsman Thibideau, Roderiguez staring after them as they disappeared around a bend in the corridor. He was not unaware of the resentment, he thought as he made his way back to the ante-room, switching off the light as he went. An ensign didn't really have all that much more authority than a seaman first-class, but this ensign had ordered two seamen to come in contact with someone who could have been carrying...something. Never did like bossing people around. If being in the military -the Navy especially- hadn't been a family tradition... Screw tradition. If he survived this cruise, he wasn't going to renew his commission. Better to take a safer job -teaching perhaps, or selling cars...  
  
A puzzled scowl furrowed Roderiguez's brow as the sharp sound of shattering glass reached his ears. Or had it? Perhaps his nerves were- The pen in Roderiguez's hand fell to the deck as the sound repeated itself, louder this time, coming from the containment room proper. Who..? That officer from the Voyageur again? "Must have escaped..." the corpsman muttered to the air.  
  
His hand fell to his side and he found himself wishing that he was bearing arms as he had seen Bingham and March were doing due to Seaview's alert status -a pointless order, he had thought at the time it had been issued, made only to follow rules and to give the crew a small sense of comfort. As a member of the medical corps, he hadn't been obligated at the time to wear his service weapon, but all at once, he wished he had taken up the option. If that Canadian had been able to escape his keepers and head back here so soon, he was a potentially dangerous and definitely determined man, whether insane or sane. Roderiguez fished a surgical scalpel out of the supply cabinet nearest to himself -as a corpsman, he was better than average at wielding a knife.  
  
"All right..." he called out as he walked into the darkness. "I know you're in there. Come out and you won't get hurt." The sound of more shattering glass was the only response and Roderiguez was suddenly aware of the lack of wisdom in his present course of action. Alone and potentially facing a violent madman... Roderiguez began to cautiously back out of the room when the door behind him suddenly slammed shut, sealing him in near blackness. With a hand that trembled despite himself, he felt for a light switch he knew to be nearby -and found it. As light, stinging and somehow too bright, flooded the area, it created new shadows...strange dark shapes against the bulkhead...shadows that moved.  
  
It was the last thing Roderiguez saw.  
  
  
  
  
The dull sound of clip-clopping feet resounded against the deck of the corridor as corpsman Gill made his way back to the containment room, not striding, but determined not to appear as unwilling as he actually felt. He was glad he was alone. It was difficult to mask the fact that he didn't want to be part of this assignment -he had always had a strong stomach for the types of things that a medical man was often obligated to see in the course of his duties, but for some reason that he had yet to fathom, his nerves had taken leave of him a short while ago. All he had been able to think about was getting out of that room...that room whose walls had seemed to close in on him all of a sudden, choking off his air.  
  
As he approached the hatch to the containment room, he felt the same sense of panic beginning to inch its way up his spine...but he wouldn't bolt. He had promised himself as such. If Roderiguez could handle it, so could he...besides which, if Fate was going to be as cruel to him as it had been to his fellow crewmen, he was determined that he and Roderiguez should talk -he didn't want to die bitter. With a steeling breath, Gill grasped the wheel of the hatchway door and started with surprise as he realized that the hatch, though shut-to, was undogged. Strange... Gill pulled the hatch open and slowly stepped inside, a little voice of caution whispering in his ear. "Enriqué..?"  
  
As the shadows moved in to greet him, he realized that he should have listened.  
  
  
  
  
The metal door of the locker shut with a loud, hollow note of finality.  
  
For the longest time, Patterson could only stare at the small pile of personal effects he had placed beside the neatly folded, clean red tunic uniforms of Seaview's engineering corps -Kowalski's uniforms. More from a matter of convenience than a rule, an ordinary seaman rarely carried much in the way of personal effects aboard a submarine -even on one as massive as Seaview. One could be transferred with little notice or if a ship got shot out from underneath one, one didn't need the worrisome hassle of leaving a lot of personal mementos aboard. Perhaps for those reasons, the items that comprised his late friend's personal gear were few...and somehow...each thing bore Kowalski's stamp.   
  
Patterson angrily ground the warm saline that welled up in his eyes away with the heel of his fist. None of this made any sense. He had seen comrades fall and knew that danger was always there...waiting for them...but he had never expected -never dreamed- that anyone he cared for personally might fall victim to that danger...especially not Kowalski.  
  
And yet, he had...to a disease that had no name and for all this seaman knew might claim him next. At the moment, he felt too numb to care one way or another...and he had a duty to perform.  
  
Sharkey hadn't had to have asked -he would have volunteered anyway. Patterson stared at the thin, hinged box in his hand -a sleek, delicately inlaid black case- before opening it. From within, the sharp glitter of cold metal met his eyes -Kowalski's silver dolphin...the emblem that proved that a sailor had become a submariner. Though Seaview's crew did not wear the emblem on their uniforms due to the ParaNavy's "official" non-Navy status, each man aboard had earned and possessed one -from the silver dolphins of the enlisted men to the gold dolphins of the officers. Why hadn't it been placed on Kowalski's uniform for burial..? But no, he remembered now -Kowalski had always said that if anything was to happen to him, that he wanted his elder brother, Stan, to have it...proof that a rough-edged kid like him had stuck with it and had made it in the Navy and the ParaNavy. Patterson closed the case -he would make sure of it.  
  
Just then, the corner of a photograph that stuck out from the pile caught Patterson's eye. It was a four-by-six taken on a liberty taken during a two-day lay-over in Trinidad and Tobago last year after Seaview had undergone some much needed emergency repairs. He remembered the place -some old non-descript tourist trap- and the hideously garish shirt that some shopkeeper had conned his late friend into buying...and had been wearing at the time of the picture's taking. Man... Old memories- "Geez..!"  
  
Patterson found himself staring, his brow furrowed, fascinated despite himself, as a thin line of bright red blood welled up on the tip of his thumb; the pain of the papercut fading amongst a background of thoughts as a single sanguine droplet fell onto the already red-smeared picture. "Damn..." The seaman's already haggard countenance twisted with frustration as he tried to flick away the obscuring drop and succeeded only in causing the small stain to spread, further obscuring the image.  
  
"Pat..."  
  
"Just a minute, 'Ski. I-" Patterson's voice died in his throat as he realized what he had said and why. He glanced around himself sharply, eyes darting from side to side as his hands automatically continued to mop the static image with his handkerchief, and finally accepted the reassurance of his senses that he was still alone and that no-one had actually spoken to him -especially not his late shipmate no matter how much he wished otherwise. He had heard of things like this -of how a grieving person's longing to see someone again...to resist the reality of one's grief...could have the mind fashion whatever one wanted to see...and hear -as if the person was actually there. Grief... His mother had often said that she could feel his father's presence just after he had been killed...but that was a long time ago and she didn't say it anymore. How long would it be before he stopped saying it? He didn't know.  
  
A small smile twitched at the corners of Patterson's mouth as he brought the picture before his eyes once more. Good as new. "What the-"  
  
It had happened in the space of a breath. One moment, the photograph was in his hand and the next... Patterson blinked rapidly, hoping to exorcise his eyes of some kind of optical delusion, but nothing changed. Where there had been substance, there was now none. His hand was empty and the picture was gone...gone as if snatched from his fingers -assuming that he had ever been holding it. The possibility that Delta's madness-inducing phantom sickness might have been on board the sunken Voyageur as well was something that was never far from his thoughts. Whatever it was, it had escaped detection...had killed...would kill again? It was in that moment that seaman Patterson found himself more inclined to say that he did not want to die...no matter how much he was hurting right now. He could almost imagine Kowalski standing there, telling him -ordering him- to get a hold of himself...to stop wallowing in his personal misery and to make a decision one way or another.  
  
Patterson took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. All right then, he thought -time to make a decision. Trust his senses or not... He decided that he would trust place his trust in them for now...or, at least, until he had a good reason to do otherwise. He had been holding that picture and he had dropped it. It was as simple as that. And if he had dropped it, the image had to be around here somewhere. Patterson dropped to his knees, searching, hands feeling under small crevices, under any space where a small thin object might land after falling from his hand in a moment of weariness-induced stupor. "I don't know what's funnier -this picture or the sight of you on your knees searching for something that isn't there."  
  
The voice stopped the seaman in mid-movement; on his hands and knees save for the one hand that remained outstretched as the seconds ticked off in a slow crawl as he struggled with himself over the decision of whether he should or shouldn't look up. Finally, the need to know -and the growing crick in his neck- triumphed over the dread. Patterson swallowed deeply, moistening a tongue and throat that had both gone inexplicably dry, as he raised his head and then his eyes...and saw what he could not possibly be seeing.  
  
Kowalski, resplendent in his best dress uniform of navy-blue, stood there, his back propped against the bulkhead as he apparently continued to stare at the photograph in his hands -the lost photograph- seemingly studying it with diligent intensity before he looked away from it, perhaps distracted by the sound of Patterson's sharp intake of breath, and regarded the stooped, incredulous seaman with a faint smile of amusement. "I can't believe that I actually kept this picture," he said, glancing again at the static image. "But then again, I still can't believe that I got conned into buying that hideous shirt -especially for the price they were charging." He shrugged lightly and let the image fall from his hand to flutter to the deck. "Live and learn, I guess."   
  
It seemed that he had lost the ability to move...or perhaps he just no longer had the nerve. Patterson stared at what had to be a phantasm created within the recesses of his fevered mind...stared and did not move. The apparition wore his dead friend's face -he looked like him...sounded like him...but could not have even possibly been him...and yet...ghost of mind or supernature, this image looked so very solid...so very real even to the way that a single lock of hair had drifted over his friend's brow the way it always had...always did? Could a delusion be that real? And was it his doubt that gave the image a slightly skewed twist -the odd pallor of the skin...the faintly cruel harshness to the grin...and something else... "No!"  
  
Kowalski -or what seemed to be Kowalski- stopped in mid-movement, his hand still outstretched, his expression one of innocent puzzlement, as Patterson recoiled violently from his touch, trying to scramble backwards only to find himself backed up against a bulkhead, his chest heaving violently with some unnamable terror as the impossible apparition walked slowly, inexorably, towards him, his hands spread against his own chest as if stricken by his friend's reaction. "Pat... Don't you recognize me? It's me -Kowalski. We've been friends for years." A pleading tone entered Kowalski's voice. "Don't you... Don't you know me?"  
  
Patterson could back up no further and, finally, felt himself obligated to look up...to study the apparition who stood before him. Everything his senses relayed to him, told him that what he saw was the friend he had known for so long...but his memory told him otherwise. There was something so very wrong... "You died, 'Ski."  
  
"Death..." Kowalski muttered, his lips pulled into a small, almost mocking grin. "Death is often a matter of opinion, Pat. You ought to know that by now after all the things we've seen and experienced. As for me...I am...I'm-" The grin became a grimace, the seaman's eyes closing for a long moment as if he had suddenly been overcome by an inner pain, sweat trickling down his temples...but the instance passed quickly, a mask of quiet amusement replacing...something. Something ugly. "Trust me." He extended his hand again. "Please."  
  
More by force of habit than conscious effort, Patterson felt himself slowly, hesitantly, extend his own hand to grasp Kowalski's, expecting to touch nothing but empty air...but the flesh that met his skin was solid. Solid and real...and strangely hot to the touch as he was pulled to his shaky feet. Patterson's mouth moved, but, at first, no sound came out. "You..." he whispered weakly. "You are real! But...how?"  
  
"How..?" Kowalski's pale countenance fell blank as if the question had never entered his mind and now that it had, he had no idea of how to answer it because he simply didn't know. He regarded Patterson helplessly, his eyes searching for a memory that he didn't have. "I don't know... I woke up. It...it was dark...cold... I was... I was thirsty..." Kowalski stared at his hands, seemingly struggling with...something...and for the first time, Patterson saw the dark stain on the sleeve of Kowalski's uniform...dark, brownish, and wet...the color of gradually drying blood that stretched from the cuff to the elbow.   
  
At that moment, the confusion fled from the seaman's eyes, his expression hard and fixed as he caught sight of the small wound on the tip of Patterson's thumb and how it had begun to bleed again, carmine welling up to the surface of his skin...and by degrees, like an old reel to reel theater film, there was a change in him -an almost physical change as the already strained aspect to his countenance gave way to an expression that was feral...angry in a way that Patterson had never seen, the irises of Kowalski's eyes reflecting the glow of the halogen lights as blood-red orbs. Perhaps this was the wrongness he had sensed, but this time, instead of fear, Patterson felt the need to help. His friend was alive, yes, but also obviously still very, very ill -that was what it had to be. Sickness. "'Ski... Let's get you to Sick Bay. Doc can help you."  
  
Kowalski continued to stare at Patterson's outstretched hand...at the blood, his shoulders and chest beginning to inhale and exhale with ragged breaths, his tongue darting out to wet his tightened lips as if- "No." The word came out as a whisper...almost a cry as Kowalski slowly backed off several steps, his eyes still locked on the small crimson stain before he turned away with a visible effort, the mask of horror fading or hidden for now. "I won't do it," he whispered to the voice in his head; to the thirst that hissed like an angry viper within him. "I...won't!"  
  
"'Ski-"  
  
"Don't!" Kowalski shrank away from his friend's touch, faster than Patterson had seen him or any man, move before. "Get away from me, Pat! Get away now or I'll kill you! Please go!"  
  
What actually had the better hand in getting him to break out of his stupor of disbelief, Patterson could not say -whether fear from within or the sudden tortured pleading in his friend's contorted face, he did not know- but whatever it was, the seaman found himself on his feet and running...running hard into the corridor. The corpsmen... Doc... They had all been wrong, terribly wrong. He had been wrong too. Kowalski was alive! But still sick...so very, very sick and he needed help. Had to find someone -anyone- that would listen to him! Had to- "Oh!"   
  
Chief Sharkey stumbled backwards, barely maintaining his balance, as a blur of a seaman piled heavily into him, rousing him from the solitude of his own thoughts, and roughly pulled the seaman to his feet from the deck on which he had become sprawled. "Jesus, Patterson! What's with you, hah!"  
  
"He's alive, Chief! Alive!"  
  
Confusion furrowed Francis Sharkey's brow, his eyes searching the contorted face of the seaman who would almost certainly have crumpled to the deck again had he not been grasping him by the arms, so violently was he trembling. "Who, Patterson! Who's alive!"  
  
"Kowalski!" Patterson finally gasped, his eyes wide and staring with a jumbled mixture of confusion and fear. "I saw him -talked to him!"  
  
"Kowalski..." Sharkey repeated the name as a ghost of inner pain darkened his rough, expressive visage. He had been that seaman's superior, but he had also been his friend, and Kowalski the younger brother that Fate had decided not to allow him...and for just a little while, he had almost forgotten his passing...almost. But as badly as he felt, Patterson was obviously suffering far more, the pain of grief pressing on his mind. Poor, uncomplicated Patterson... It had been the worst mistake of this chief petty officer's career to have ordered him to stow his best friend's gear when his personal agony was so overwhelming. He wished he had recognized that at the time. "Pat..." the Chief said with deliberate care and with nearly more effort than of which he was capable. "Kowalski... was my friend too. I loved him like a brother. But no matter how it hurts, you have t' accept this -he is dead."  
  
"No!" Patterson exploded, frantically looking back towards the locker room, his face pale and damp with sweat. "He's alive -real! It was him -but...but something's wrong with him! I-I said I'd get help!"  
  
Sharkey regarded the agitated seaman, struggling silently over what to do or say next -he was no psychiatrist and what Patterson needed right now was...a friend? "All right... I'll come an' see," the Chief said with an effort. "Take me to him."  
  
Patterson all but dragged the Chief Petty Officer toward the locker room where the door stood open just as the seaman had left it, pulling him into the room where- Patterson stopped short, his wan, haggard countenance suddenly blank. The room was also exactly as he had left it -Kowalski's gear and clothing in their two neat piles, waiting to be properly stowed; a wrinkled duffel bag, empty and draped over a long faux-wood bench; the glossy photograph left carelessly on the deck- but there was no-one there. No-one. Patterson shook his head slowly, all of the frantic energy seeming to bleed out of his body even as his chief petty officer watched with an expression that was profoundly sad. "I..." Patterson's mouth was slack, working loosely, mutely, for a long moment before he was able to speak again. "I saw... He was here. He was..." The seaman regarded the Chief with a pleading bewilderment in his eyes. "You...believe me...don't you?"  
  
Sharkey nodded slowly, tiredly. "Yeah, Pat. I do." The Chief took the defeated seaman by the arm, gently guiding him out of the deserted locker room and into the corridor, leading him in the direction of Sick Bay, Patterson no longer seeming to have the will to resist anymore. "Let's just get you out of here for awhile, okay?" Patterson nodded dumbly and allowed himself to be led, neither of them seeing that behind the now closed door, on the farmost bulkhead, was a ventilation grate that was not exactly where it should have been. It had recently been pried off and then very hastily replaced, and hanging from one of the slightly bent corners was a tiny scrap of blood-sodden navy-blue fabric torn off from a seaman's dress uniform where it had been caught...   
...only moments ago.  
  
  
  
  
In the dark inhospitable depths where Seaview rested, there was more shadow than light ...even the mighty submersible's external lighting array could not change that. She was hidden, and alone from without -though not from within. Within the metal womb of the grey lady was her crew...a crew that was itself no longer alone.  
  
It was as if the shadows of the depths beyond the submarine's hull had chosen to join those who moved and worked within; dark recesses and indistinct after-images that one could see only out of the corner of his eyes -or didn't see at all...until it was too late. Something dwelt in those shadows now -something that shunned the light- as crewman Bechler learned while using an inspection passage as a short-cut between the Reactor Room and the Missile Room which had been his destination...or as seaman Davidovitch discovered while searching the electrician's stores for just that right part. By mid-watch, the fourteen crewmen reported missing had, unknown to most, had their ranks increased by five. Unseen and unnoticed, the Sick Bay's supply of whole blood units had been reduced by another three.  
  
The shadows were thirsty.   
  
  
  
  
What time was it?  
  
Admiral Nelson rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and glanced at his watch, eyes blinking at the invisible grit within them, as that ephemeral thought passed through his mind. The Navy timepiece indicated that he had only slept for four hours -he felt as though he had slumbered four years...a restless sleep punctuated by confused dreams and twisted nightmares that had made no sense then and just as little now...and had seemed to go on forever...until he had stood straight up from his crumpled bunk with no idea of how he had gotten to his feet, no memory of having dressed, and no desire to return to Morpheus' embrace. The world of his subconscious had become a battleground and he had no desire to visit it until there was no other choice.  
  
The image of Seaview's late captain, his friend, had been prominent in almost every episode of his nocturnal journey; sometimes angry for what his admiral had allowed to happen...sometimes encouraging him not to let the horror go on any further. Lee... Was it grief that he felt? Or guilt? True, he had had his orders, but he had been well within his authority to countermand them when the clear and present danger had made itself known to him. Or could he have?  
  
Damn... Didn't know what to think lately. The logic and reason that had guided this admiral throughout his naval career did not come easily to him right now. Still...one decision that was clear enough was that he had in no way changed his mind about the planned funeral and cremation -they would go on...whether he was in his right mind or not...and regardless of what it cost him.  
  
Nelson hesitated as he rounded a turn in the corridor and saw the closed door of the Sick Bay and pressed himself to continue forward.  
  
  
  
  
The soft creaking of the door to the Sick Bay caused Seaview's chief medical officer to look up sharply from the eyepiece of the stereoscopic electronic microscope before him, his eyes darting to the holstered side-arm he had placed on a nearby table. He had decided at the time that Seaview had been placed on official security alert, that the weapon had felt unnatural in his hands; as alien to him as the biological specimen before the lens of his microscope looked. Doc took a shuddering breath, his heart pounding with all the force of a triphammer -nerves ragged; not sure why- but while he did not know why the sight of the weapon comforted him now as much as it repelled him, he was well aware that he was a crack shot...and would use it if necessary.  
  
"Doc?"  
  
Doc sighed with a relief he could not explain at the sound of his admiral's voice. "Be right there, Admiral." The medical man placed the biological sample in a secure receptacle and, taking a hopeful glance at the sealed vials that sat in an upright container, doffed his latex gloves and entered the Sick Bay's ante-room. He was immediately taken aback by his superior officer's haggard appearance. Admiral Nelson looked like he had gone through Hell; his eyes reddened, his countenance lined, grey and haunted as if the spirit had gone out of him. "I...thought that you'd turned in, Admiral."  
  
"I had," Nelson replied wearily, running a hand through the slightly rumpled red hair. "I couldn't sleep any longer."  
  
Doc studied the man a moment longer. "If you wish, I could give you something -to help you to rest."  
  
"I'd rather not."  
  
"Sir-"  
  
"I said no... Thank you." Nelson shook his head tiredly. "I appreciate the offer, and it may not make much sense at this point, but the last thing I want right now is to have my mind...my feelings numbed. If I am to suffer the tumult of my own emotions, then I want to feel it -all of it. I... I'll sleep when I need to...and not before. I'll rest when the Seaview is safe."  
  
"Aye, sir..." Doc waited, silent and patient, as his admiral stared at nothing in particular, lost in his own thoughts. Though Nelson was a man known for his vitality, and for the almost zealous energy with which he tackled almost any duty or assignment, the man now looked old in a way that had nothing to do with age...and tired too. Very, very tired. Doc did not consider himself an insensitive man -he was all too aware of his superior officer's personal pain...his loss...but there was little he could do to help and words of sympathy recently repeated over and over again had begun to ring hollow and false. A small sigh escaped Doc's lips. Perhaps this wasn't the right time...but hope, even if it turned out to be false, was often better than nothing. "Seaview had a little excitement while you were resting, Admiral."  
  
"'Excitement'?" Nelson's expression sharpened immediately and a questioning glint formed in his pale eyes. "What kind of excitement?"  
  
"Our guest made a temporary escape-" Doc hesitated and corrected himself, remembering that the Canadian officer was no prisoner "-an unannounced excursion from Sick Bay."  
  
"Guest? Thibideau, you mean." Nelson glanced sharply in the direction of Sick Bay proper. "He's conscious then?"  
  
"Was conscious, sir."  
  
"Did he say anything? Anything at all about what happened at Delta?"  
  
"Unfortunately not," Doc admitted ruefully. "He...somehow slipped away while most of the medical corps was preoccupied in the engineering section -apparently tried to set the containment room on fire, but he was knocked out while being caught. Whatever was going through his psyche at the time, he seems to have returned to his catatonic state."  
  
"V2..." Nelson muttered sourly at the apparent realization of the inevitable. His fist crashed against the lacquered surface of the table nearest to him. "The maddened state... He has the virus too, doesn't he?"  
  
"No, sir."  
  
Nelson's visage creased with bewilderment. "What do you mean? How can you possibly know for sure?"  
  
Doc folded and unfolded his fingers in an uneasy gesture. "I was hesitant to mention it, sir, because it isn't a cure -not yet, at least."  
  
"What isn't a cure!"  
  
The Chief Medical Officer flinched despite himself as his admiral's voice rose with pent up emotion. "Formula number thirteen in Dr. Bergman's personal journal -we found the reagent...and it works with amazing accuracy. I'll show you."   
Nelson followed the medical man to the testing area where a self-contained see-through cubicle had been set up and within it, in front of a pair of mechanical, robot-like arms and hands used to handle sensitive biological materials, were samples of bacterial cultures humanity knew too well -Swine Flu, A-Streptococcus, HIV, and Bubonic Plague; live cultures still so very necessary even these days to create serums should the unlikely occur. A stereoscopic electronic microscope was also encased within it though the eyepiece and controls protruded outside of the cubicle. Doc glanced at several thin vials of some purplish fluid mounted in secure see-through containers and nodded with an expression that could only be described as tentatively hopeful. "Could you give me your hand, Admiral?"  
  
Automatically, not really thinking about what he was doing, Nelson extended his hand to Doc. "Jesus!"  
  
"Sorry, sir..." Doc murmured apologetically, an auto-lance now stained with blood from one of Nelson's fingers in his hand. As his superior looked on in mute, mounting curiosity, the doctor took a tube of some unknown clear blue fluid from a rack of several tubes of the same, and from the auto-lance, very carefully released a single drop of Nelson's blood over the tube's mouth, allowing the droplet to fall into the now unsealed vial -the fluid within immediately turned purple. Doc offered a small smile. "Your blood shows no sign of infection, Admiral. You're clear."  
  
"Then that-"  
  
"Batch thirteen -the reagent." Doc gestured to the cubicle and its contents within it. With experienced hands, his fingers danced over the keys on the control board and the mechanical hands within the cubicle began to move, compelled by their pre-programmed commands. "These vials with the purple fluid contain the reagent into which has been introduced samples of blood from eight uninfected crewmen. As you can see, the formula turns purple when the introduced blood sample is uninfected by V2. However..." There was a low, electronic hum as the robotic hands deftly, almost gently, removed a blood sample from one of the vials within the cubicle and placed it into a tube of the clear blue uncontaminated reagent. This time, the result was dramatically different. For several seconds, the curious formula actually seemed to churn, its color shifting ...becoming an insidious dark green...and then, finally, it turned solid black. "That was a sample of Stuart Riley's blood... It was the same for every member of the crew who died from our phantom virus -the reagent turned black."  
  
Nelson shook his head with aghast amazement. "My...God..."  
  
"There's more, sir."  
  
"More?"  
  
"Look at what happens when I introduce a mere 1cc of a victim's blood into this sample of A-Streptococcus." Again, the robotic hands followed the keyed-in commands of Seaview's doctor, placing a drop of the blackened blood into a sample of the live culture and then placed a smear of the resulting sample before the powerful lens of the electronic microscope. Behind the protective screen, Doc studied the image through the visor-like eyepiece, his visage twisting with grim satisfaction, before he gestured for Nelson to do the same as he stood aside. Nelson looked through the eyepiece. Almost at once, his ruddy complexion blanched a sickly white even though he forced himself to continue to study what he saw. "Merciful God..." he whispered under his breath before he drew away from the visor and met Doc's eyes. "A-Streptococcus... The virus is gone. It... It's just not there anymore!"  
  
Doc nodded and rubbed his bleary eyes with the back of his hand. "I know. Whatever it is that's in the blood -whatever the phantom virus is ultimately- it seems to literally consume its competition, not leaving so much as a trace element. I've tried other live cultures -even cancer cells taken from those fish samples we took from the site of that massive chemical spill off of the coast of Florida three months ago... The reaction is still the same." Doc shrugged wearily. "I would have to say that Project M.I.N.A. was a partial success. They may not have found a preventative vaccine, but they found a cure all right -a cursed cure."  
  
"It cures...and then it kills." Nelson glanced at the cubicle, almost wishing that he had the power to by force of will alone make the medical instrumentation to go beyond their present capabilities and tell them what they needed to know. Foolish notion, of course, but he wished it nonetheless. "But why... Why can't our instrumentation pick it up? Why were the decontamination units unable to detect it or even begin to cleanse it?"  
  
Doc grimaced inwardly. "I wish I-"  
  
"Doc! Doc, you in here?"  
  
The sharp, familiar voice of Chief Sharkey sundered the moment of oppressive tension, allowing an uneasy reprieve from having to scramble for answers that just didn't seem to exist. Nelson followed Doc into the Sick Bay's ante-room where their chief appeared to be half-supporting a bewildered and distraught seaman Patterson by the arm. "Patterson -he needs help bad, sir," Sharkey began, casting a nervous look in the crewman's direction.  
  
Doc nodded uncertainly, but quickly donned his mask of medical professionalism. "Now, what seems to be the problem?"  
  
"Patterson thinks he saw-"  
  
"I did see Kowalski, Chief!" Patterson snapped, suddenly agitated. "I did! I spoke with him...and - and he talked to me!"  
  
A shadow of dismay darkened the physician's already grim visage in a way that Nelson could read all too clearly -things had been too quiet for a while...much too quiet...and now, it was starting again. After a brief lull, the second wave was upon them. "I see," Doc said carefully as he gently took the troubled seaman aside by the arm, leading him to one of the other rooms within the Sick Bay. "Let's talk about this, shall we?"  
  
The door shut behind the two men, leaving Nelson and Sharkey alone. "Poor Patterson..." Sharkey muttered with a rueful shake of his head. "I-I think he really actually believes he was speaking t' Kowalski. He must be hurtin' real bad inside." The Chief's thick eyebrows suddenly knit together as an ugly thought formed within his psyche. "You don't suppose, sir, that he's -you know- that he's-"  
  
"Contracted the virus?" Nelson said, finishing the question. Sharkey nodded solemnly in response. "I don't know, Francis...but we will know in a few minutes, I suppose."  
  
"Er...how's that, sir?"  
  
"The reagent, Chief," Nelson muttered, wearily slumping down into the nearest available seat. "We've... Doc's found the reagent that can tell us who is and who isn't ill with V2."  
  
Sharkey studied Nelson uncertainly, not at all sure how he ought to take this bit of information...at least, in Nelson's presence. "That is good news, isn't it, sir?"  
  
"It is."  
  
"I-I mean, a cure can't be far behind. We'll be able to go home when the repairs have been completed, won't we?"  
  
Nelson regarded the Chief, himself uncertain how to answer. As a scientist, he knew how frustrating the quest for much desired knowledge could be. A piece of the puzzle here. A piece of the puzzle there. Scraps of information followed by a torrent of new discovery... and then, nothing. For a long time. Maybe forever. He didn't want to destroy the fragile spark of hope that he could see in Francis Sharkey's eyes, but that was the reality of it. Nelson was relieved when Doc chose that moment to return to their company, freeing him from the obligation of deciding whether to tell an ugly truth or to lie through his teeth...for now, anyway.  
  
"Patterson's clear," Doc announced with quiet relief, his countenance not quite as grim as it had been a very short while ago. "No sign of infection. No sign of V2 at all."  
  
A faint smile animated the Admiral's haggard visage. "I'm glad to hear of it," he said quietly. "How is he feeling now?"  
  
"Resting. I gave him something to help him sleep...he's a very exhausted man, Admiral."  
  
"Now wait a minute!" Both officers glanced in the direction of the Chief Petty Officer whose presence they had admittedly all but forgotten, as he slowly paced a short length back and forth, his hands gesturing in a familiar flurry of nervous activity. "I don't get none of this," he protested, his frustration all to evident. "What about what Patterson was saying? What about how he said he was supposed to be talkin' to Kowalski an' all? Are you saying that he's gone an' lost it all on his own?"  
  
"Profound grief can twist a sane man's perceptions, Chief," Doc explained patiently. "I can assure you that Patterson is as sane as he has always been...but he is also in a great deal of personal pain and for a short while, his senses told him exactly what he desperately wanted to hear...and showed him what he wanted to see." The Chief's shoulders slumped with relief. "I can swear to that on my Hippocratic Oath. Now..." Doc reached over to the medical tray he had brought with him from the other room -on it were a sterile auto-lance and a tube of the reagent. "With this reagent, here, we should be able to prove your good health as well. If you would be so kind as to give me your hand, Chief-"  
  
A small puzzled frown creased Sharkey's brow as he automatically did as he was bidden. "Yes, sir, but what- Hey!"  
  
"There," Doc murmured, a small thoroughly unnecessary grin flickering on his lips as he quickly removed the sharp instrument from the tip of the Chief's bleeding finger, "that wasn't so bad."  
  
Colorful language that would have made any Navy man that he knew blush flitted through Francis Sharkey's brain as the tiny wound began to throb, the injured digit pulsing as though it had been run through by a red-hot poker. Not too bad, he had said. Not too bad indeed! "Well?" he asked through tightened lips, sucking on the wound. "What's the verdict?"  
  
"You're clear, Chief."  
  
"Yeah...good..." Sharkey muttered sourly, ill humor belying the relief that he actually felt. He removed the digit from his mouth, noting with a grunt of satisfaction that the bleeding had already stopped. The Chief turned in the Admiral's direction. "Ah, Admiral...with your permission, I'll be returnin' to my duties now. Mr. Morton's gonna be wondering where I got myself to."  
  
"Of course, Francis..." Just then, a spark of memory tickled at the back of Nelson's mind -a nagging itch that refused to be ignored. "Chief-" he said suddenly. "Those missing crewmen -did you locate them?"  
  
"Er...no, sir," Sharkey replied glumly, his hand on the metal knob of the now open door. "Mr. Morton's been looking into the possibility that he may have...'miscalculated' the first time 'round."  
  
"I see." The Admiral nodded wearily. "Carry on."  
  
  
  
  
The still, quiet corridor stretched on before Francis Sharkey as he made his way to the Control Room -it was somehow very much longer than he last remembered it; longer and darker with crazy shadows that reminded him of a house of horrors that he had visited one summer as a smart-assed kid growing up on Coney Island. Strange shadows...and shapes that seemed to reach out to grab one only to disappear just before they touched one's skin.   
  
A physical chill traveled down the length of Sharkey's spine as he dismissed thoughts of a youth that somehow seemed to belong to the memories of someone who couldn't possibly be him. The monsters that that Francis Ethelbert Sharkey had known had been the fanciful machinations of man or imagination, and the horrors had been the kind that went away with the dousing of the last light on the carnival grounds or the moment one opened one's eyes. To the Chief of the Boat Francis Sharkey that he had become, though, monsters and horrors had both been and could be very, very real...and they didn't just disappear when one wanted them to. They stayed...either in reality or memory...or when the nightmare was the reality. Like now.  
  
Shadows... A frown furrowed the Chief's brow as the shadows against the pale bulkhead of the intersecting corridor up ahead seemed to shift...moving...convulsing ever so slightly like a dark, opaque mist troubled by an errant breeze. Sharkey's lips pressed into a thin line as he wrestled with himself over whether to react to or to ignore little things that his wired nerves were making out to be more significant than they actually were.   
  
"Anybody there!" he demanded finally. Silence answered the Chief Petty Officer -silence and then, a sound...soft and low like an intake of a breath or a hiss between one's teeth. Almost automatically, Sharkey's fingers brushed against the smooth butt of the side-arm in the holster strapped against his side, its presence offering him some small comfort by the simple fact that it was there. "Anybody there!" Again the dead silence. Again the sound.  
  
Sharkey took a tentative step forward as the shadows again began to move...definitely this time...and among them, a human shape...a shape he recognized as it moved into the light by its navy-blue dress uniform and the wild shock of strawberry-blonde hair upon its head. The Chief's voice issued from his slackened mouth as a feeble squeak. "Riley..?"  
  
No... This could not be... Sharkey dashed angrily at his eyes with the back of his hand and when he looked again, eyes blinking away the resultant distortion, the image was gone. Stuart Riley was not there...but then again, he had never been there in the first place. Couldn't have been. He was dead. Sharkey removed his hand from the gun butt and studied the tiny, aching wound on his finger where Doc had drawn blood. If the medical officer had not assured him that he was all clear... The fingers bunched into a fist and then fell to his side with deliberate, though false, nonchalance. His nerves, drawn tight as they were, had begun to tell him lies. Cruel lies. Lies to which he had no time to listen anymore.  
  
Chief Sharkey squared his shoulders with an effort and continued on to his intended destination.  
  
  
  
  
"Sections one through eight -check!"  
  
The small check mark of red marker ink brought a small smile to the lips of seaman Butler as he jotted it down on the repair duty list he carried, pinned to a plastic clipboard over several just like it. For the first time since Seaview had been sent to the bottom, the list of completed repairs was longer than the list of duties to be performed and Seaview -well, Seaview was finally beginning to look like Seaview again. Thoughts of actually being able to go home no longer seemed quite as far-fetched as they had a short while ago...or did they?  
  
Damn...always the pessimist, wasn't he? For every hopeful sign he could find another that brought lofty notions tumbling straight back down to Earth...or in this case, to the bottom of the sea. A troubled frown darkened Butler's brow as memory whispered at the back of his mind and he was forced to remember the grim fact that Seaview was dealing with something that could prove far worse than mechanical failure...something that had killed several good men and might appear again to kill again, even though an uneasy quiet had settled upon the great grey vessel and her crew. The seaman mopped the sweat that had begun to bead up on his upper lip with a heavily crumpled tissue. No...not as far-fetched as once before, but...far from out of the woods just yet. Butler returned his attention to the list and then, to the ventilation grates which were next on his inspection list. Better to keep his mind on his duties -he had less time to think when he did...less time to sink into pessimistic worrying that- "What the..."  
  
Butler's frown deepened all the more at the sight of the ventilation grate just ahead; a grate just like any of the others that he had inspected along other sections on his watch...except that the fabric pendant which indicated airflow was disturbingly still  
  
Immediately, Butler glanced sharply back and forth, taking in each grate in its turn -all functioning, all with pendants fluttering gently against their metal grids...except for this one. Had the others been in the same condition, he would have suspected that the air revitalization system had quit -death to them all- but that wasn't the case. Damn twice... Butler felt relieved and annoyed at the same time -relieved that things were obviously not as bad as they could have been, and annoyed that the repair detail that had worked in this section only hours ago had missed the blockage in this area. One of the panels in the vent itself had to have fallen down, cutting off the flow of air -not dangerous, but when one's executive officer said that he wanted this vessel ship-shape, he usually meant ship-shape.  
  
Muttering choice obscenities under his breath, Butler took a small screwdriver from out of his uniform's hip pocket and began to work the thin, flat plane between the bulkhead and the edge of the metal ventilation grate. There was a dull pop and a low, scraping groan as the metal screen swung away from the bulkhead, sending a light shower of dust to the deck and onto his shoes. Butler wrinkled his nose as he immediately caught wind of a smell...a cold, musty odor emanating from within the vent which told him that this part of the air duct had neither been opened nor cleaned in a while...demerits for whoever was responsible.  
  
Sniffling against the tickling within his nostrils, Butler reached into the opening, searching for the fallen panel, but his outstretched fingers met nothing but air. Dead, stale air untroubled by the usual push and flow of Seaview's recirculated atmosphere. "Shit..." The seaman placed his clipboard on the deck, propped it against the bulkhead, and clambered in through the man-sized opening, reaching ahead of him into the darkness of the vent...a darkness which was waiting for him.  
  
Crewman Butler went in...but he didn't come out.  
  
  
  
  
A sharp hiss of breath escaped between his tightly clenched teeth; a sharp gasp of wonder...of disgust...of pleasure...and pain. Yes...the pain that had come upon waking and wouldn't go away. It was everywhere -in every shuddering breath, in every enflamed cell that made up the physical stuff that was his flesh and blood, in every fractured thought that tumbled through his maddened brain -and it would not leave him alone. The hiss became a muffled moan as he pressed himself against the darkest recess of his secret hiding place -away from the light which was just another source of pain and a brilliance that blinded his newly light sensitive eyes.  
  
The darkness was cool and comforting in a way that he didn't understand though some distant part of his mind told him that he ought to know. He felt safer here...could see here without struggling against that awful glare outside...and he had seen things. Terrible things. He had seen others like himself take that young crewman. A faint whisper of human pity echoed through his confused mind -poor...poor crewman hadn't even had time to scream, to cry out, or to beg for his life. Not that it would have helped had he been able -they wouldn't have listened. The thirst...the need controlled them and had almost compelled him to join in the bloody frenzy...almost, but quite. Not yet, but...soon, probably. God... Some part of him hoped that they had destroyed the man and not just drained him. That way, at least, he wouldn't be condemned to the hell to which he himself had been consigned.  
  
An animal-like whimper issued from between his lips as he wrapped his arms around his body, drawing his knees up to his chest as another wave of pain -worse than anything he had experienced before- enveloped him because of thirst denied, but how long he could go on like this, he did not know. The humanity in him was growing weaker and the beast within was growing stronger -the monster he was becoming shadowing every thought, every action now...making him want and hunger for things that revolted him...making him agonize in this self-imposed prison rather than let him seek help...making him suffer rather than allow him to kill himself...or to let himself be killed. If he could be killed...he no longer knew if that was possible -wasn't he already dead?  
  
Long-fingered hands bunched into tight fists, the newly sharper nails biting into the soft skin and flesh until rivulets of blood trickled from his hands onto the metal plating of his hiding place as the awful need reached an impossible pitch, crested, and then...gradually...slowly waned, the very sight of his own sickly-looking sanguine fluid inciting nothing but sheer physical revulsion now. That was the way it was -they all sensed it as certainly as they instinctively sensed what their hunger craved...had to have. The blood of the changed was the one kind of blood they found intolerable -for with rebirth, it became foul ...bitter...and could no longer feed them. They -he- needed something better... something...  
  
He sniffed the air, his senses ferrally acute as the ungodly thirst suddenly reared up within his breast again, no longer pleading or asking, but demanding to be sated. His new senses were still nascent in comparison to those who had been reborn before him -especially to those who had already fed- but they still served well. Too well.  
  
His tongue washed over the newly-emerged secondary incisors, feeling their fang-like sharpness, as he moved through the darkness of the inspection passage with ease, his eyes piercing the blackness as though it was the brilliance of mid-day, pulled by the need to feed. He noted only in passing that the wounds in his palms had already healed completely. In life...in his humanity...he had commanded this ship, but in rebirth, he was the lowest among the changed, the omega-male among a pack of demon-wolves because he was the last to be reborn and had yet to feed...but...some part of him still remembered every part of this vessel...every room and every area -and the need used that knowledge. He was lowly, but even as he neared his goal, he sensed that that might -would- change.  
  
The passage grate fell to the deck with a low metallic thud as he hesitated and then struggled from the confining passageway, dropping heavily into -where? He remembered almost immediately. Scraps of memory -some vague and some vivid- filtered through his brain as he studied his new surroundings, rubine eyes squinting against the painful light. A...medical lab. One of several. The one that was rarely used. There were cages here and in each metal enclosure, two white male rabbits. The last resort in medical testing -he remembered that- due to the Animal Rights' Act at the beginning of the century...animals not to be used unless cell cultures failed to give needed answers. Even had he not known that, he would still have sensed their warm, living collective presence...just as they were all obviously instinctively aware of the unnaturalness of his own. Tiny pink eyes widened...and little furry white bodies trembled. They knew. Somehow...they knew.  
  
Once, he had known each of these creatures by name, but that part of his powers of recollection failed him...probably just as well...but his hands still trembled ever so slightly as he reached into one of the cages and lifted out one of the wriggling bodies and held it against his shoulder; a part of him wanting to assure the gentle creature that it would all be over quickly, that it wouldn't hurt all that much...a part of him wanting to put off the inevitable for as long as he could. He knew that humans would have struggled with all they had in them at this point, but animals rarely did, as if they knew there was no point in fighting when it was time to die -instead, the plump, white rabbit had become and remained terribly still, though it was still alive, resigned to its fate...as the ravenous need reared up within him again.  
  
It was over in less than a minute -the flash of retractable fangs...the splatter and taste of warm blood from one creature and then others- and he let the drained, lifeless body clutched in his hand fall to the deck beside the bodies of his brothers, his free hand wiping at the slick, dark, bloody stain around his mouth in a grotesque parody of human habit. The thirst, the need, was quieter now, but it was in no way gone. It lurked there, making itself known, telling the shrinking human part of him things that it didn't want to hear -that the rabbits hadn't been enough, that he still needed more, that even if he drained those that remained that it still wouldn't help for long. He needed more.  
  
And he would have it...take it, the little voice in his head told him with vicious glee as a nearby mirror reflected his image and the gory horror of which he had become a part. He would have it.  
  
Sharpened senses pricked then at the impossibly familiar scent of something...no...some  
one close by and coming closer. The recessed fangs automatically extended with instinctive anticipation. He knew that scent -he didn't know how- but he knew it...and the metallic tang behind it. Yes... No! His human self screamed mutely and beat its ephemeral fists against the invisible walls of its mental prison. No! No! NO!!! But the need wasn't listening and he was no longer master of himself...  
  
...and all that mattered was the thirst.  
  
  
  
  
Somehow...at some point during the watch, he had forgotten himself.  
  
Time had ceased to exist for him and he had begun to perform his duties in a fog of non-awareness; an insulating balloon of emotional and mental numbness that had finally popped as though pierced by a needle when his acting second-in-command, Lieutenant O'Brien, had discreetly taken him aside to inform him that he had been on watch for almost eighteen hours straight...and his only response had been a bewildered: "What?"  
  
Chip Morton rubbed eyes that felt as though they had been packed tight with invisible gravel. He hadn't felt the tiredness before, but he was beginning to feel it now. His limbs were leaden, his most basic reactions increasingly sluggish, and faint ghosts of imagination had begun to play at the edges of his perceptions -he barely felt the repetitive slap-slap of the holstered service weapon against his thigh as he walked the few metres between himself and his quarters -a distance that felt oddly long and seemed to grow greater with each step.  
  
He supposed that deep down, he had been avoiding sleep. Many of those to whom he had spoken -everyone of a mind to be honest about it- admitted to doing the same thing for reasons that were sometimes as unique as the individual. Grown men who had encountered real monsters had become afraid of their own personal bogeymen. Others were afraid that to sleep was to never awaken...that the illness of which they had heard would take them when their guards were down. Still others dreaded something both simpler and more sublime -nightmares. There had been a rash of them lately, if he had heard right; especially since the accident -and usually about the same thing. Images of those who had been lost to the sea because of the accident and mates who had been claimed by the nebulous illness would haunt their dreams and some would beg Doc for something to keep them awake only to be turned away or confined to Sick Bay while a dose of something from a hypodermic needle or pill bottle sent them, for a while, to where dreams could not reach them.  
  
Morton ran his wearily fingers through his fine, blonde hair, carelessly sweeping aside a stray lock that had drifted into his eyes. He couldn't help but wonder what nocturnal demon of the subconscious would visit him when he had no choice but to close his own eyes, sensing somehow that he already knew.  
  
He dared say that anyone from the psychiatric corps would call what he felt "survivor's guilt". As a lieutenant commander, he had known, respected, and cared for a fine commanding officer by the name of John Phillips, Seaview's first captain, and had grieved deeply with the rest of the crew upon learning of his being murdered. Rumor had had it then that he would be taking up command of the Seaview, but he had known then that he had lacked the qualifications to take command of the great prototype vessel in Captain Phillips' stead. Very practical attitude...and yet, he had been thoroughly prepared to resent anyone who had been assigned to take his late captain's place among Admiral Nelson's select group -an officer who had turned out to be a man who was younger than himself by a couple of years...Commander Lee B. Crane.  
  
Chip Morton had not been prepared to learn that Fate had decreed that he and Lee Crane would become close friends...and thus, he mourned again -for a friend that had died too young, and for the realization that he was no longer certain that he actually still wanted the command that he was now qualified to assume...a command that was increasingly beginning to appear as though it came with a curse.  
  
Morton shook his head slightly as the door to his cabin came into view. Tired...he was almost too tired to think straight anymore. Perhaps in the morning he would- Morton's brow furrowed as he grasped the metal door knob...and the door swung open at his touch though he could have sworn that he had closed it as was his habit when he left his cabin. Emotions confused. Now memory too? It was hard to think. Morton entered the cabin and felt for the light switch.  
  
"Don't."  
  
At the sound of a voice that he could not possibly be hearing, Chip Morton's hand froze, his fingers just a hair's breadth from the light switch. As a naval man -as a person in general- he had always prided himself on his rationality...on his ability to think clearly...sanely. Though the missions on which he had been, and the phenomena which Seaview had encountered, had forced him to expand his range of perceptions of what was ordered and right, no-one could have convinced that he would one day hear what could not be heard.  
  
Morton's fingers curled, drawing away from the light switch...slowly...the rhythm of his heart a thunder in his ears as his pupils widened, straining against the limits of normal human sight to pierce a darkness he could have sundered with a stab of his thumb...except that a quiet, dreadfully familiar voice had said: "Don't." Get out. Stay in. Call for help. Remain silent. For the first time in a long time, Seaview's executive officer found his power of decision curiously paralyzed as he strained to the pierce the blackness and found only varying degrees of darkness...shadows against shadows... Again, his hand, as if with a will apart from his own, reached for the switch.  
  
"I said -don't. Please...don't." Morton turned sharply in the direction of the voice and realized for the first time that he could hear breathing other than his own -and while the muted illumination of the corridor lights did not reach far within his quarters, barely at all, he saw, also for the first time, two small discs of reflected light almost like the mirrored glow of the moon from the eyes of a dog or cat. The two dots blinked, rubine and somehow hard, as a new sound met Chip Morton's ears. There was a small click and the soft illumination of his desk lamp on its lowest setting lessened the deep just a little...enough for his eyes to further confirm the seemingly impossible evidence of his ears. He could not see the shadow-masked face, but he recognized that form, cloaked by darkness though it was. "Lee..?" Morton whispered at last. "Lee... That is you, isn't it?"  
  
There was no immediate response and then: "The light...hurts," the darkness-shrouded form said, ignoring the question, its voice a hoarse whisper as it slowly, seemingly awkwardly, rose from the swivel chair on which it had been sitting, and stood there...waiting...perhaps just staring at the Executive Officer. There was a soft, nearly feral laugh. "You...look like you've seen a ghost...Chip."  
  
"Maybe... Maybe I have..." For what seemed to be an eternity, Morton's voice failed him just as his power of decision had only moments before -it was as though his tongue had suddenly swollen and would not be moved. Was it possible that survivor's guilt had fashioned his own private demon of the mind; a personal punishment for what ambition he had dared to possess -or was it something else? Something that he was afraid to believe. Something worse. Seaview's on-going log had recorded at least four incidents of the spirits of those who had died, returning and walking her corridors, haunting and sometimes possessing the living -he hadn't wanted to accept it then...and despite his grief, he wasn't certain that he wanted to accept it now. "Lee..." Morton croaked at last, prying his tongue loose, his throat and mouth suddenly far too dry. "You're...not real."  
  
The feral laugh was heard again; a little crazed this time...nearly an anguished sob. "What am I then, Chip? Tell me...what am I?"  
  
"I don't know..." Morton found himself waging a silent battle with himself -what he knew against what he feared- searching for some rational explanation for all of this...something that he could analyze and quantify and put in a neat mental box like the pragmatic man that he was. "You cannot be-"  
  
"Cannot be what, Chip?" the dark figure asked, its voice thick with mocking amusement. "Dead? Alive?" He paused, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. "How about living dead -was that what you were grasping for? Wouldn't that be a kick in the head -living dead?"  
  
As the maniacally cackled question faded into silence, the logical, reasoning portion of Chip Morton's brain worked at a fevered pace, compelled as much by a need to make sense of the insane as by the panic which had begun to crawl up his back like a thousand tiny, sharp fingernails. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a recollection -trivia hearsay actually- of people presumed dead and buried though alive...the stuff of nightmarish legends that had endured from the time that humanity had first conceived of them. Buried alive to awaken in terror-induced madness...   
  
This Chip Morton's ordered sense of reality could accept. "Lee..." he said, taking a hesitant step forward. "Listen to me... You were sick -do you remember that? You were very sick -and you still are. We...we thought you had died." Morton tentatively...carefully reached out to the shadowy form. "I can get you help-"  
  
"Stay away from me!" The voice of Chip Morton's visitor had risen from a mere rough whisper to all but a shriek, a cry of rage and terror...a terrible, terrible fear -but for whom? Despite what had been demanded of him -despite the innate, almost instinctive fear of what he might see, the Executive Officer's hand darted out and slammed its palm against the recessed light switch mounted on the bulkhead. Almost at once, a strong brilliance -startling even to him- sundered the semi-darkness and a piercing, animal-like howl of agony split the air.  
  
It took ten seconds, less perhaps, for Morton's eyes to reaccustom themselves to the light. Pale eyes, stinging and watering, widened with recognition...and shock. It was one thing to believe and another entirely to know... Morton stepped forward, hesitantly, glancing despite himself at the service weapon strapped to his side as he drew nearer to the form -that of a man- who pressed himself against the farmost bulkhead, huddling there, his face buried in the small refuge of shadow in the corner as though struggling in vain to hide -but from what? Him? The...light? Whatever the case, Morton found that he could not mistake the identity of that trembling being for any other. From the shock of hair that seemed blacker than he remembered it, half-hidden by the man's shaking hands, to the soiled dress uniform -he knew that man. Morton haltingly extended his hand. "Lee...it is you..." The huddled figure began to stir and turn his head.  
  
Once, as a child, Chip Morton had encountered a maddened dog, a stray that had been afflicted with rabies. Even now, he remembered the look in that animal's eyes -how they had been glazed with a mindless rage- and how the thin black lips had been pulled back, foaming spittle dripping from its mouth, as a low constant growl had issued from between its bared canines...just before a local policeman had shot it in the head...and as the being he knew as Lee Crane slowly met his eyes, Morton saw that same maddened beast...except...that this beast was still or was once a man.  
  
It was no trick of the light that the irises of Crane's once eben eyes were now red -two dark, hard, glaring rubies that remained unblinkingly trained on the Executive Officer, leaking reddish tears on cadaverous skin as Crane pushed himself to his feet, his chest heaving visibly with ragged breaths, his blood-smeared lips pulled tight against bared teeth... Morton's mouth moved with a mime of "Oh My God", his eyes widening in horror as he took in the drying bloodstains on his comrade's torn uniform shirt and the smear of red on his cheek and around his mouth. His teeth... Despite the training that would have insisted that he hold his ground and take his prisoner, Morton felt himself take a step backwards as he searched blindly for the service weapon he knew had to be at his side, unable to look away from what he saw.  
  
Unclean -Crane's last message had said unclean! The XO was no stranger to the classics, but even he had not remembered the significance of that word or why his friend would have written it...until now. It was a quote from an old novel Crane had shown him recently...a word of warning against a bloodthirsty nocturnal evil. Project M.I.N.A....blood-hungry attacks...reports of blood missing... God in Heaven! The scientists at Delta had created the living dead!  
  
The Executive Officer's sudden inspiration wasn't enough to give him time to react as the demon that wore his friend's face leaped from his semi-crouched position with a guttural roar, and connected, throwing them both clear across the cabin.  
  
The landing came in an explosion of pain as the Seaview's XO felt the back of his head hit the deck...but he didn't see stars and he did not lose consciousness as much as he might have wished it. This was a nightmare in the world of the waking and Fate, in its vindictiveness, was not about to allow him to sleep and avoid it.  
  
Morton had always known Lee Crane to be his superior in hand-to-hand combat and he had suffered more bruises than he cared to admit at his friend's hands, but even their most brutal martial arts' matches bore no comparison to this. Whatever this thing was -whatever Crane had become- his strength was several-fold that of any man. Only sheer terror was allowing this executive officer to come close to holding his attacker at bay -and he knew it. He could also feel himself weakening ...the fear-induced adrenaline that burned in his veins would not last much longer and when it was gone, he knew that he would die at the hands of this "beast" who pressed its gnashing fang-like teeth closer to the warm human flesh of its intended victim and the blood beneath it. Even as Morton struggled, razor-like fingernails slashed at him, drawing blood from his cheek, and raked his arms, slitting the fabric of his sleeves, gouging the skin of his arms until blood dripped from the jagged wounds.  
  
There was an agonized scream which Morton only vaguely recognized as his own and a tearing pain in his left shoulder blade as fangs broke the skin, gouging the flesh...and warmth as blood poured from the open wound. He did not know how he did it, and perhaps he would never know, but the next thing of which the Executive Officer was consciously aware was that the fingers of his free hand had somehow closed around the butt of his service weapon, that he had yanked it out of the holster...and that he was pulling the trigger. There was a deafening explosion and his maddened attacker was literally thrown backwards, hurtling through the air which reaked of blood and gun powder, until he landed in an unmoving heap on the deck.  
  
All was silent.  
  
Ragged breaths escaped Chip Morton's heaving chest as he weakly pushed himself to his unsteady feet, only vaguely aware of the blood dripping from his wounds to the deck, the pain that wracked his sanguine-stained body a distant second in importance in his mind in comparison to the horror that attended every thought. He did not know whether he should have been laughing or crying -in either case, he could effect neither. Grasping the semi-automatic in both of his slick, carmine-stained hands, he took a tentative step toward the crumpled heap that had once been his friend.  
  
All at once, there was a stirring in the fallen form and even as Morton watched in paralyzed disbelief, Lee Crane stood up. There was a smattering of blood and gore on the bulkhead behind him and a cruel grin twisted his lips as the gaping wound in his stomach, of torn flesh and blood, appeared to flow like quicksilver, healing before the horrified XO's eyes. "Tsk, tsk...Chip. You were always a terrible shot." The thin-lipped grin revealed fully the sharpened incisors as the Captain moved slowly, almost languidly, forward.  
  
"No..." The second shot was fired and the dreadful apparition recoiled -but only for a moment- and kept on coming as the new wound healed just as quickly as the first. A third shot was fired -the reaction was the same. The fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. The eighth. Morton looked at the now useless weapon as though it was something alien as the hammer fell repeatedly on an empty chamber, the magazine completely spent...and still Crane kept on coming ...closer ...slowly...and then, with a movement that was so fast that Morton did not see it coming, knocked the useless semi-automatic out of his grip with a swipe of his hand and raised the XO off the floor, his feet dangling, grasping him by the throat. As blackness began to envelope him, air cut off and disappearing, words formed in Morton's gradually suffocating brain and came out as a feeble, strangled croak: "Lee...I-I...beg you... Don't...do...this!! "  
  
A minute stretched into an eternity, blackness reaching, and then Morton felt pain and finally breath as the constricting grip around his throat relaxed and he fell to the deck. As fresh air rushed into his starved lungs, he dared to look up and saw Crane glancing around himself, panicked and disoriented, a whimper building in his throat before he locked eyes with Morton again. An expression of horror etched itself into his sallow face as he backed off a few steps, his hands spread out before him as though to deny what he had done and had tried to do. "Chip... Tell them... Tell them...all... Get...get out of here...or I swear I'll kill you... Get out NOW!"  
  
Self-preservation -a brute unreasoning instinct- pushed Chip Morton to plumb what little physical strength he still possessed and propelled him through the unbarred, open door into the corridor beyond. There was...an intercom near here...a wall-mike...there was- As the last of Morton's strength finally gave out, his legs collapsed beneath him, sending him down to the deck in a limp heap. From somewhere at the edges of his senses, he heard a noise and saw with blurred eyes a dark form sweeping towards him. He would have screamed...but it seemed that he no longer had a mouth...and the blackness was now complete.  
  
Lieutenant O'Brien kneeled beside the crumpled, bloodied form of his superior officer, his mouth open in horrified disbelief, and found a weak, thready pulse. An irrational impulse had taken control of him only moments before; a sudden concern for the executive officer he had insisted take his rest before he collapsed from exhaustion. The loud whine of laser welding torches had masked the sounds of an attack he hadn't heard...and there was no way he could have known that he would have discovered this. The young lieutenant leaped up and grabbed the wall-mike, clicking it rapidly as he clutched it with a shaking hand. "Sick Bay! Officer down! Send a medical team to Mr. Morton's cabin -on the double, Goddammit! On the double!"  
  
Lieutenant O'Brien grasped the hand-mike tightly, knuckles blanching, as his dark widening eyes scanned his familiar surroundings with a new fear.  
  
  
  
  
"I know what I saw!"  
  
"Yes, sir, Mr. Morton, but please lie back!"  
  
The gurney was pushed through the long corridor of B-Deck at near break-neck speed; corpsmen that had only moments before been enjoying what had appeared to be a period of relative peace now either guiding the mobile bed or tending to their stricken executive officer as they headed toward Sick Bay. This was a part of their particular training; to respond to a call quickly, to react professionally because they were, after all, doctors as well as sailors...but when they had actually arrived at A-Deck, as a frantic Lieutenant O'Brien had bidden over the ship's intercom, they had not -could not have- expected to see what they had seen.  
  
Several among them had borne witness to the grim remains of seamen Clarke and Tomàs -somehow, their personal horror was not nearly as great- but the others had stopped, just for a second or two, upon seeing their patient's condition. The lot of a corpsman rarely amounted to much more these days than setting the occasional broken bone, the patching of a burn (or rarely a bullet wound), or dealing with a sailor who had somehow swallowed a little too much water -but this was uniquely...horribly...different. For all intents and purposes, their executive officer had been mauled by a wild animal...and as far as they knew, the only animal on board Seaview capable of what they had seen, was of the variety that called itself sentient and walked on two legs.  
  
That was then. This was now. In the small space of time and distance between A-Deck and the Sick Bay, the thin white mattress and the pale sheets that covered the gurney had become saturated in parts by the red paint of human blood -Mr. Morton's blood- in spite of their best efforts to staunch the deep claw-marks on his arms and what appeared to be -and yet, surely could not be- a gaping, ragged bite mark deep in his shoulder -such as might have been made by a wild dog. Only the scratches on his cheek were relatively superficial and even they pulsed with fresh warm carmine with every beat of the Executive Officer's heart.  
  
Halfway between where they had started and Sick Bay itself, Doc had met the medical team with special trauma equipment, the Admiral trailing close behind, both men wearing the collective expressions of those who had recognized the physical manifestation of a personal dread that was as inevitable as it was terrible -a horror that had disappeared behind the noncommittal masks of military and medical professionalism even as Doc had stepped forward and taken over the detail.  
  
Sick Bay doors were thrown open, hitting the bulkhead with a loud, violent slam as the gurney was pulled through the opening. "Chip -I must ask you to hold still!" A strand of Doc's thinning hair drifted limply over his damp forehead, ignored, as practiced hands were forced to fumble with the long sliver-thin needle attached to a clear, pliable tube which in turn led to the bag of plasma which one of the corpsmen held in his hand over the medical bed. Dazed, semi-conscious stupor had given way to frantic delirium, his patient seemingly as determined not to allow him to continue with the procedure as he was to perform it.   
  
Besides the severity of the wounds themselves, Chip Morton had lost an enormous amount of blood...almost, perhaps more than almost what could be accounted for despite his injuries. According to one of the shakier members of his medical corps who had followed the trail of Morton's blood on the deck of the corridor to his cabin, despite the horrific bloody scene, there was yet too little blood and gore splattered on the bulkheads and deck of the XO's cabin to explain why their executive officer was missing so much- "There." The needle pierced the flesh and life-giving plasma began to drip down the tube and into the Executive Officer's veins as little by little, the delirium gave way to unconsciousness once again. "All right, get him into Treatment #1 -stat!"  
  
There was the crash of Sick Bay doors to one of the inner sanctums as corpsmen, doctor, and patient disappeared through the doorway, a second crash as the doors closed, and then resounding echoes followed by silence...dead silence...even the low buzz of electricity humming through inert medical equipment -hooked up, but not in use- did not break the stillness...swallowed up by the quietude of contemplation.  
  
Harriman Nelson sank down into a nearby chair and waited. There was time now...more time than there had been only a short while ago. By degrees, Seaview was getting closer to being seaworthy -at least enough for her to crawl home, wounded and limping...were they able to go home at all. This most recent and horrible event had brought home the reality of that unlikelihood in one violent thrust. They -his ship, his crew, himself- could not go home even if the mighty submersible were able to race the waves at flank speed. Seaview was a plague ship; a vessel possessed by a murderous, madness-producing disease that had, with almost human sentience and perversity, chosen to remind him of its presence at the moment that he had had the sheer audacity to hope that like the Black Plague of old, the disease had run its course -simply appearing and disappearing...as if it had never happened...except for the corpses of its victims left in its grim wake.  
  
Nelson fingered the pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket, a whisper of physical longing in his mind...but...his hands dropped to his lap. He had promised. In no way would he dull his mind and senses in any way as long as his ship and crew were in peril...but a mind undulled was a mind that could not stop thinking...could not free itself from the fetters of guilt and the need to go over the same path of thought over and over again. What kind of perversity was it that he should almost...almost...wish that the mysterious and terrible assault on his executive officer had been one of pure human evil rather than the mindless compulsions created by a phantom plague? "Human corruption would be the lesser of evils, Admiral...wouldn't it?"  
  
Nelson looked up, slowly, and despite the sight that met his eyes, he felt no real surprise. "I thought that you'd be here sooner or later."  
  
A faint smile lit Lee Crane's thin lips. "Yes, sir. I suppose you would." The tall young captain slid off the examining table on which he had been languidly sitting, his attention momentarily taken by a small piece of medical bric-a-brac which he picked up, examined, and then set down again. "And you didn't answer my question."  
  
"I don't know if there's a real answer, Lee. Perhaps it's a question best left to theologians and those of a more spiritual bent of mind." Nelson regarded the Commanding Officer almost quizzically. "Why are you here, Lee?"  
  
Lee Crane's grin grew just a shade wider. "'Why', Admiral? Are you sure you don't mean how?" He shook his head and shrugged slightly at the Admiral's lack of response. "In either case, I don't know. Shouldn't I be?"  
  
"You're dead...or had you forgotten?"  
  
"Oh...that." Crane's eyes rolled at the bringing up of a subject that was quickly becoming old and tired. "Being dead and staying dead are two entirely different things, Admiral -and if, as I was once told, a man is only supposed to truly die once a lifetime..." Crane hesitated, apparently puzzled, before he met his admiral's eyes once again. "Could this be something worse..?" The small smile faded, the Captain's countenance suddenly profoundly sad. "I'm...'trapped', Admiral ...neither dead nor alive, just...in between."  
  
Nelson reached out, extending his hand to offer what feeble comfort that he could, but despite himself, withdrew it just as quickly, inwardly recoiling from the cadaverous cold that emanated from his late friend. "Lee, I... Is there anything I can do? There must be something..."  
  
"Yes..." Crane nodded slightly. "Yes. There is." The pale commanding officer's hand slid to his side and when he raised it again, he extended to Nelson a gun -a fully charged, high-range plasma gun- its thick, black barrel pointed towards himself. A ghost of a smile animated Crane's face. "You can free me."  
  
"Lee..."  
  
"I can't do it myself!" Sanguinous tears began to roll down Crane's sallow cheeks. "I want to -I would if I could...but I can't!" Crane saw the haunted hesitation in Nelson's eyes. "Please..."  
  
Nelson grasped the cold, heavy plasma-charged automatic and hefted it, balancing its weight in his hands, before he sighted the weapon and braced himself against the expected recoil as his finger tightened, pressing against the trigger- "Admiral?"  
  
Nelson blinked rapidly, eyes clearing, as reality flooded into his brain once more at the sound of Doc's troubled-sounding voice. "Uh... Yes, Doc?" he said, mentally scrambling for a façade of dignity as he pushed himself from the slumped-over position in which he had awoken. Sleep...yes, sleep came readily -occasionally unexpectedly- but when it came, it came without peace while presenting imagery of such clarity that even now, he could almost feel the cold kiss of metal in his hands, his finger depressing the trigger of a plasma gun, and he could nearly smell the vaguest hint of the aftershave Lee Crane had favored. Just dreams though... "What is it?" The Admiral caught the physician's grim expression. "It's...that bad."  
  
Doc answered with a slight tilt of his furrowed brow, shook his head ruefully, and reluctantly handed Nelson the sealed vial of reagent into which a sample of blood had been introduced -Chip Morton's blood by the label on it... The solution had turned an insidious and familiar black. Nelson's lips moved in a mime of "Oh, Jesus... Jesus... Jesus..." as he handed the vial back to Doc who set it aside. "There's definite evidence of the virus in Chip's blood. We can't see it, but by his physical reactions, it's there all right...and following a somewhat unusual course in comparison to the others. So far, we've been able to keep Chip's condition fairly stable -but for how long, I don't know."  
  
"But how!" Nelson shook his head in anger and frustration, his strongest efforts failing to disguise the tremor in his voice. This couldn't be happening. Not another one. Not Chip too. "But...how could it have happened!" The nightmare was unfolding all over again -he couldn't deny that anymore. "How could he have been infected!"  
  
"He was attacked... It seems to confirm the theory that the virus is contracted through the exchange of bodily fluids...blood, saliva, and the like."  
  
"Yes - yes..." Nelson muttered with a dismissive gesture of his hand. "I know all that, but we both deduced that V2 can only infect a victim whose immune system has been adequately compromised. Morton has been healthy up until now -exceptionally healthy. Your tests proved that -Chip confirmed it." Nelson slammed the palm of his hand down on the lacquered surface of the physician's private desk, the pain of contact that traveled up his arm almost as bad as the gnawing ache at the back of his skull -it was becoming hard to think. "We've missed something -must have- or the scientists at Delta missed something."  
  
"Perhaps, sir..." Doc stared for a moment at nothing in particular. "But there's more."  
  
"More?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Chip is fairly lucid -for the moment- but..." Doc shook his head wearily, the hours beginning to tell on him. He hunched his shoulders tiredly. "To tell the truth, sir, I have no idea what to make of his account of the attack. I think...I think you had better hear it for yourself. He wants to talk to you."  
  
The note of unease in the medical man's voice echoed in the back of Harriman Nelson's mind as he slowly turned and headed toward the area that Doc had indicated -the words mentally logged and filed for later...for when matters other than verbal semantics weren't pressing on his brain as hard as they were. As Nelson approached his executive officer's bunkside, he was struck by an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu. Morton, fair-skinned by nature, had blanched a sickly, almost greyish hue which stood out starkly against the purplish bruises or the livid scratches and welts that the many bandages could not hide...and like Crane before him, the XO had been physically bound to the Sick Bay bunk by a series of medical restraints. But why..? "Chip..."  
  
For a time, the Executive Officer did not stir and Nelson began to believe that he had fallen into a deep sleep or worse, but then, the young officer moaned slightly, his eyelids flickering and then opening slowly, apprehensively. "The light... I can't..."  
  
"Oh." Nelson glanced back at Doc who stood off to one corner -the physician nodded with immediate understanding and turned the dial on the bulkhead light switch...almost at once, the sterile white light from the ceiling lamps dimmed, leaving Nelson and Morton in an area of semi-shadow. "Better..?"  
  
Morton nodded slowly. "Yes..." He swallowed painfully. "Thank you...Admiral..."  
  
"Chip," Nelson said quietly, "Doc said that you had something to tell me about the attack."  
  
"Y-yes, sir..." Morton closed his eyes, pausing as if to gather his flagging strength, and then opened them again. "I know... I know who attacked me...sir...but... But you won't believe me... It...nobody does. Doc doesn't..."  
  
Nelson leaned a little closer -Morton's voice had faded to little more than a whisper. "Who, Chip?"  
  
Morton paused again, a vague near-smile forming on his lips only to disappear almost as suddenly. "It... It was Lee, sir... He attacked me."  
  
It was nothing that Nelson could have expected to hear and yet, as he mentally digested Morton's words, memory reminded him of a grief-addled Patterson's state of mind only a short while ago and the situation seemed all too familiar. Was it that -an anguish-confounded mind all over again? Had to have been. There was no other logical answer. "Chip...you know that's not possible. Lee died yesterday -and it could not have been him. Who attacked you?"  
  
"It was Lee, I tell you!" Morton struggled against his restraints, possessed by a new, frenzied strength. Immediately, Doc stepped forward, a filled hypodermic that had just been handed to him by a corpsman, in his own hands. Nelson gestured and shook his head as Morton sank back against his heavily-creased pillow, depleted once more. "It was Lee..." Morton whispered. "I saw him...talked to him...touched him...but at the same time... At the same time...it wasn't Lee at all. He was...different somehow...all wrong ...crazed...and his eyes... Oh God, his eyes..."  
  
"What about his eyes, Chip?"  
  
"They were...red. Demonic...blood-red rubies...glowing in the night..." A small, shaky laugh escaped Morton's lips and just for a moment -a trick of imagination and the light surely- his pale eyes seemed to reflect the dim brilliance of the muted halogen light overhead as discs of red themselves. But the moment passed so quickly that Nelson was uncertain that he had actually seen it...and perhaps because of this...perhaps because the disbelief in his face was so obvious and open...the XO locked eyes with him for a long moment before whispering: "You... don't believe me."  
  
"Chip, I never said-"  
  
"Why don't you believe me?"  
  
Nelson passed a hand over his weariness-sore eyes. How could he be expected to believe...and how could he admit that he didn't believe when Morton's state of mind was evidently so precarious that he would likely be pushed over the proverbial edge by the speaking of a single word that didn't fit in with the delusion? "Chip..." Nelson said carefully. "I know that you think you saw-"  
  
"Damn you! Damn you, Nelson!" Nelson flinched at the vile, uncharacteristic retort. "I didn't imagine what he did to me -anymore than I imagined this!" At that moment, two corpsmen rushed in and pressed the wildly struggling executive officer against the saturated bunk mattress as Doc emptied the contents of the hypodermic into Morton's veins and...almost instantly...the struggle stopped, the Executive Officer sinking into a drugged sleep...for now.  
  
Doc drew up to the Admiral's side. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Admiral."  
  
"Yes..." Nelson nodded slowly, sadly. "So am I, Doc. This...madness -was it like this before? Was that why Lee was confined...the way he was?"  
  
"More or less... It seems to be part of the disease -the victims have no control over it ...when it happens."  
  
"Like at Delta -Good Lord..." Nelson's fists tightened involuntarily and he grimaced as a small sharp pain stabbed in the flesh of his palm. The Admiral lifted the stinging hand to his eyes, squinting with a silent curse on his lips that he had failed to pocket his reading glasses...but he could see more than well enough to know what it was that he'd not initially realized that Morton had passed to him before once again sinking into delirium; something that he had grasped and held automatically. He stared harder. "What the Devil..?"  
  
A tiny bubble of blood had welled up from where the small sharp object had pierced the soft flesh, staining the thing, but in no ways disguising it. He knew what the object was...but he did not believe it...even as the cold white ceiling lights reflected off the silvery metal. It was one of the collar pins of a naval officer...but not just any officer -it was part of what made up the pips of a captain. But how?  
  
Nelson noticed that Doc was studying him, silent and questioning. "A...captain's clusters..." Doc murmured, equally puzzled as Nelson continued to study the small object. "Chip had that?" Nelson nodded silently. "But how did he keep it hidden?" the physician demanded more of himself than his superior officer as he tried to recall whether his patient had been struggling with his hands open -or closed. "Admiral -I didn't see it...and neither did any of my corpsmen. I'm certain of that much!"  
  
"The question is not how Chip kept it hidden, but from where did he get it in the first place." A whisper of inspiration echoed in the back of Nelson's mind; so faint and so impossible that he refused to listen to it. "I imagine that he must've gone in Lee's cabin or, perhaps, entered the containment chamber, but when and for what purpose..." Nelson shook his head, frustrated by uncertainty and the realization that he was grasping at straws for an explanation. He sighed aloud. "At any rate, what we have to find out now is how Chip was infected with the virus -and by whom." Nelson regarded the physician, almost daring him to answer. "Unless you accept his delusion that Lee attacked him?"  
  
"No... No, I don't, but there may have been other victims we knew nothing about -latent, malingering cases perhaps..." Doc met Nelson's hard though questioning stare. "...and bodies have been known to have remained infectious for quite a long time after death...disease vectors... There was no indication or evidence that this was the case, but..."  
  
"The two corpsmen..?" Nelson muttered as he slipped the naval pin into his own breast pocket. "Roderiguez and Gill..?"  
  
Doc nodded solemnly. "Possibly."  
  
Nelson's eyes narrowed. "Where are they now?"  
  
"I...I'm not certain..." Doc confessed almost helplessly, suddenly embarrassed as he realized that he had no real idea. "As far as I know, they should still be on the funeral preparation detail..." The doctor's brow furrowed further than it had been moments ago when the conversation had turned in a direction he was now sure that he did not really want it to go though he had no real choice...as he felt himself forced to add: "I hope."  
  
Nelson frowned with suspicion. "You...'hope'?"  
  
"I hope," the medical officer repeated, all the more uneasy.  
  
Nelson was no longer listening. The doubt in the Chief Medical Officer's subdued voice was now enough to awaken that disposition for action for which he was known; a tendency that his years of naval service had honed to a level that was considered by some to be on par with instinct...or so he had been told. He grabbed the wall mike and clicked it impatiently, piping the signal throughout the ship. "Corpsmen Gill and Roderiguez -report to Admiral Nelson in the Sick Bay. Immediately!" A pause. "Corpsmen Gill and Roderiguez, this is Nelson. Acknowledge!" Another pause. Nothing. Nelson shook his head worriedly and clicked the mike once more. "Chief Sharkey, this is Nelson. Acknowledge."  
  
There was yet another silence -a silence that seemed somehow too long...long enough for Nelson to glance back at Doc with open, mounting concern and then: "Aye, sir! Sharkey reporting!"  
  
Nelson's shoulders heaved with his tentative sigh of relief. "I want you to locate corpsmen Gill and Roderiguez. Last known location was in the-" Nelson hesitated, suddenly unwilling to say more -having very few options besides the one that he presently faced. To mention -even to remember- the containment room in which the bodies of Seaview's fallen remained was to lance a terrible wound that had yet to even begin to heal and hurt more with each mentioning -at least, the members of his crew could show their individual pain more openly.  
  
Jaw set with a determination that was not as strong as it appeared, Nelson nodded to his unseen chief of the boat. "Last known location -the containment area. If you are unable to locate them there, I want you to mount a search party and scour this ship from keel to Conn..." There was another pause -much longer this time. "And, Francis...I must stress this: take all manner of top level anti-contamination precautions -they may be gravely ill...infected with a particularly virulent strain of the Delta virus. No-one's safe from this one. Avoid any fluid to fluid bodily contact."  
  
There was a thinly disguised sigh on the other end of the line. "Aye, sir..."  
  
  
  
  
The dull clip-clop of the rubberized soles of Francis Sharkey's shod feet against the cold deck beneath them echoed against the bulkhead of the empty corridor most directly leading to the containment room... Empty... No-one had actually issued any order to steer absolutely clear of the are -odd...and not to his knowledge anyway- but no-one had needed to do so. With one accord, enlisted men and officers alike avoided the area unless they had no choice but to be here...like himself. All the bluster in the world could not change the fact that he didn't want to be here...in this area...any longer than he had to.  
  
As he approached the somehow imposing hatch, the troubled chief petty officer found himself automatically making a final check on the seals of his protective suit -stress points secure, fabric unbreached, all in order- and softly muttered an unholy oath in pure disgust, regarding his gloved hands before dropping them to his sides in resignation. The effort had been a useless one born of countless training drills, not out of logic. He was no scientist, but he knew full well when something didn't work.  
  
All of the precautions...all of the procedures that the crew had followed to the letter to stay healthy and alive hadn't been worth shit. The virus had spread -was likely still spreading- and good men had died and would probably continue to do so...unless the Admiral figured out a way to save their skins as he and the Skipper had so many times before.  
  
Sharkey reached for the hatch wheel and hesitated, the movement causing the synthetic cloth of the anti-contamination suit to shift and press the golden crucifix he wore beneath it against the skin of his chest, sharp and cold. He couldn't say for certain when exactly he had again begun to wear it -a strong Catholic upbringing had failed to wax him as religious as his devout parents had hoped- but wearing it now gave him some small comfort -in the form of hope...and protection? Against what? Sharkey uttered a small, nervous laugh. Protection from what indeed. With a steeling breath, the Chief grasped the hatch dog -and started with surprise when the wheel immediately moved loosely beneath his gloved hands. "Undogged..? What kind of lead-brained swab-jockey would..?" He frowned again as he realized that the palm and fingers of his gloves had come away stained with some sort of sticky red-brown matter smeared on the metal ring. Paint..?  
  
Sharkey shook his head in frustrated puzzlement, his lips drawn tight, his free hand shadowing his service weapon as he entered through the now unbarred hatch. It was now or never... "Roderiguez? Gill? You guys in here?" Silence answered him...but then, it was possible that they were in the ante-room, wasn't it? Perhaps they hadn't heard him...or weren't listening. "Roderiguez! Gill! Come on, you guys -fore and center on the Admiral's orders!"  
  
Nothing.  
  
Just faint echoes of his own voice and then silence shrouded by darkness. Darkness..? Sharkey's brow furrowed slightly as he realized that whatever the reason for there being no active lighting in this area, he should have been able to have seen some light from the ante-room itself even if the door was closed. Certain rooms in the ship were never to be left in total darkness -he didn't know why. He supposed that he didn't really care. That was just the way it was. Usually...and especially since he had personally seen to it that the electrical systems were sending plenty of juice to Seaview's bio-medical research areas.  
  
The Chief Petty Officer moved forward slowly, feeling around himself like a man newly blind, for the light switch he knew to be nearby. As his hand came in contact with the recessed panel, a stinging brilliance sundered the blackness, startling him for a moment though he had known it was coming, until his watering eyes adjusted, reaccustoming themselves to the illumination.  
  
The color bled from Sharkey's face.  
  
A mouth that was usually active with orders or a ready answer fell open, mute with horror, the jaw slack and the pallid skin slick with cold sweat. As though instinct had taken over from conscious decision, the Chief felt himself take a step backwards -first one, then two, and more after that- until he had backed all the way out of the room and into the corridor, the pounding of his heart like repeated explosions in his brain as he stumbled towards an intercom unit that somehow seemed far too distant.  
  
Sharkey's hands trembled as he grasped the mike, almost dropping it twice, his mouth working silently for a moment longer before he was able to speak at all. "This is... This is Chief Sharkey... Get a security detail down to...Get someone down to the containment room...on the double! This...this is an emergency!" Sharkey let the mike fall from his hand as he sank against the bulkhead, eyes pressed shut against the mounting sense of horror within him. "Mother of God..." The worst wasn't over.  
  
It had just begun.  
  
  
  
  
It had been a vague order at best...a few confused words half-bellowed and half-cried by the oddly shaky voice of a chief of the boat who had failed to acknowledge his presence upon command -but those few words had brought immediate action. At least, there had been that. The collective nerves of Seaview's crew were drawn tight...so taut that a single word or act out of place triggered some reaction, whether of dread or something akin to anger that some new trouble had befallen them when Seaview had been through enough already in such a short time. The number of the latter far outstripped the former, and by the time that Admiral Nelson had arrived in the corridor just before the containment room, he had already been preceded by several security detail teams hastily thrown together, each man bearing the expression of one not so much eager to face greater horror, but determined to face whatever had compelled them to be here...and to get it over with.  
  
Also there, however, compelled by something other than duty, were a milling group of crewmen...most likely bound to remain by the same morbid sense of curiosity present to some degree in every human being. Nelson knew that had he not, for whatever nebulous reason or instinct, hesitated at the door to his cabin -had he taken those mysterious white oblong pills that Doc had finally pressed upon him- he would not have heard Sharkey's frantic call over the intercom. He didn't know whether he should have been grateful...or not. It didn't really matter -he was here...and despite himself, he too, wanted to see this thing through.   
  
Seaview's admiral silently regarded the half-closed hatchway door, the guard blocking the partial opening from within the corridor, the vague half-seen shadows of movement within the containment room itself, and then the crowd of curiosity seekers before gesturing curtly to three openly uneasy members of the security detail nearest to him -they all snapped to attention immediately. "Johnson! Raye! Brown! Get everyone who is not specifically supposed to be here out of here -on the double!"  
  
Three voices answered in unison. "Aye, sir!"  
  
"Jackson!" A crewman who appeared far too young to be serving on any submarine, let alone Seaview, approached Nelson, carrying a conventional high-powered rifle, grasping it -perhaps unconsciously- as though it was a life-preserver and somehow...Nelson could not find it within himself to blame the lad or to reprimand him for not holding his service weapon in the prescribed naval manner. In true military habit, his own fingers had strayed, brushing the metal butt of his own personal side-arm, drawing whatever meager comfort he could from the fact that it was there at all -which, in truth, wasn't all that much really.  
  
What remained behind that partially closed hatchway -though he had yet to actually see it- had summoned a deep and terrible dread from within his breast; an almost primal fear of what he knew not...of something he did not want to see and yet...and yet, he had to -whatever was there. Nelson turned in the direction of the alternate hatchway and then hesitated, a question on his lips -Sharkey had summoned them all here, so where was- "Where's the Chief?"  
  
Francis Sharkey was not the only member of Seaview's compliment that bore the rank of C.P.O., but he was easily the only one of them who could be mentioned by rank alone and be recognized as though spoken of by his given name -and for that reason, if for no other, young crewman Jackson found that despite his desire to do so, he could not feign ignorance of whom Nelson was speaking. "He's..." Jackson paused, his personal discomfiture evident for anyone to see as he glanced to one side and gestured uneasily to the door of a common-usage Head. "He's...indisposed...sir."  
  
The openly puzzled frown that creased Nelson's brow was quickly replaced by one of understanding as he gradually became aware of the muffled sounds of retching -violent, almost uncontrollable physical heaving- coming from behind the closed door. The C.P.O. Sharkey that Nelson had come to know through the years was a blunt, plain-speaking experience-toughened man -one with whom this crew had seen horrors of the like which few should ever know- and as such, was not an individual to be shaken easily. What had he seen in there? Nelson's shoulders heaved as he drew a deep breath, effecting an image that more untroubled in form than in fact, as he pressed himself to walk forward and grasp the dog-wheel of the alternate hatch...to enter a place that instinct said was best left unseen.  
  
The stench hit him as he entered the containment room's ante-room -it hit him certainly and fully as if he had walked face-first into an invisible brick wall. Nelson did not consider himself a weak-willed man -one given to timidity or an easily unsettled stomach- but as he entered that room fully, he felt the gorge rise up in his throat and the horribly familiar bitter foretaste of bile at the back of his tongue as mind and body joined in a battle over whether he would follow the dictates of personal pride and resist the urge to vomit or to just give in and do it. Somehow...he did not give in.  
  
Nelson's hands clenched and unclenched involuntarily as he stepped forward, the foul odor thickening, it seemed, with every second that passed -the odor was familiar, metallic, and decidedly raw like the stink of an old-fashioned charnel house he had visited as a boy with his grandfather. The nauseating smell was like that -foul ...a place where the blood of a thousand slaughtered animals had seeped beneath the floorboards and had saturated every inch of porous paneling...and had stained the walls. No matter how much disinfectant was used. Nelson dismissed the old mental imagery and continued forward through the ante-room of the containment area to where he knew Doc and his team would be -the main section.  
  
It would have been a simpler matter to have entered through the opposite hatchway, but something...some little instinctive warning klaxon had sounded in his brain...warning, no, more like insisting that he delay the grim inevitable...but there was longer any time for such self-indulgent-  
  
The Admiral glanced down sharply towards his feet at the minuscule sound of crackling ...a low, harsh snapping...his eyes widening at the sight of the scattered, irregular shards of bluish glass stained with some kind of sticky-looking red fluid, sticking out from a smeared, patchy trail of the same liquid which had begun, it seemed, to dry -a trail that thickened, almost solidifying, the closer it came to the entrance to the main area.   
Cold sweat beaded on both Nelson's upper lip and suddenly pallid countenance as he crossed the threshold between the two rooms, his unwilling body pressed by the impetus of his equally unwilling mind.  
  
Doc, the medical detail, and the security detail looked in Nelson's direction, grimly silent, as he entered the main section of the containment room, but he did not see them. Not really. Pale eyes peered out from an even paler face and locked on the carmine trail -sometimes solid, sometimes not- that stretched on before them; a long, liquid stain that led to the opposite end of the room ...just across from the oddly silent cubicles. Nelson's voice came to him slowly. "God in Heaven..." He had seen many battles and knew what men could do to each other in a moment of rage or of sheer cruelty and had come to the belief that he was far too jaded a man to be surprised by anything...but in that instant, Harriman Nelson, knew that he had been proven wrong.  
  
Even had they been, corpsmen Roderiguez and Gill would not be carrying any strange illness any longer -they would not be doing anything any longer. Mental images of the two crewmen found dead in their cell only a relatively short while ago burst before his mind's eye in response to the grisly tableau before him. Roderiguez and Gill were dead -just as the two crewmen were. It was so easy to say it, so numb had he become. They were dead. Someone had somehow scaled the bulkhead and had crawled along a steel cross-beam along the ceiling from where he (they?) had hung Roderiguez and Gill, binding them there by their ankles with their own belts. Their eyes were wide, staring at nothing anymore, and their throats...  
  
Nelson tried, but could not suppress a shudder of utter physical revulsion that traveled the length of his frame. What kind of animals would have... The flesh of the men's throats had been literally torn away, creating grotesque, ragged, upside-down grins of raw meat and blood...blood which dripped and pooled ever so slowly beneath their limp, grey lifeless bodies, their uniforms hanging in sanguine-stained tatters where numberless claws or teeth had rended them.  
  
"They couldn't have been dead for very long," Doc murmured quietly, his visage pale and strained...but the Admiral was not listening. He didn't hear Doc say that blood-loss was the actual cause of death -though despite the wounds, he couldn't account for the fact that there wasn't nearly enough of it on the deck or against any of the bulkheads to account for the loss as far as the doctor could tell. Nelson certainly didn't hear Doc report that a lab technician had discovered that one of the medical labs had been broken into and had discovered a scene not unlike this -that several of the lab animals were dead...mauled, their heads literally torn off, their bodies exsanguined- just moments before this ghastly discovery. He didn't hear any of it.  
  
More shards of glass, some sparkling and some dull, scattered on the containment room's deck, crunched under the hard heels of Nelson's shoes as he turned...slowly and unwillingly...as if some unseen powers compelling him; a puppet bound by the tug of invisible tethers to turn his head in the direction of the containment chambers and see what he did not want to see...and was ultimately afraid that he would.  
  
There had been an active containment chamber to each of the Seaview's fallen and twenty-one either inactivated or yet to be fully assembled...and of the twenty-nine that had been activated, fifteen had been brutally breached, the entry panel to each of the fifteen shattered. The doubly-thick tempered-glass door on each unit had been completely destroyed, only a shard or two of shielding still clinging to the rended metal frames, and each of those units was quiet...and empty.  
  
Nelson's eyes widened, his face nearly chalk-white, as his mouth moved with mimed words of horror...and disbelief. "Desecration!" he finally hissed through clenched teeth. "What...What kind of monsters would..." He turned sharply to Doc who could only look on helplessly. "Who... Who would steal the bodies of the plague victims! What kind of sick, perverted, madness could possess a man to steal the bodies!"  
  
"I..." Doc shook his head slowly, his mind and emotions still numb. "I don't know, Admiral. This is...inhuman. You'd think that they'd suffered enough. If this is because of the virus, I don't know what-" the Seaview's physician stopped mid-sentence, his attention distracted despite the horror by the sudden appearance of corpsman Taylor. How long the young corpsman had actually been there -whether he just arrived or had been waiting there silently- he knew not, but the young medico wore the same expression as any man who had entered this chamber, and the hand with which he grasped the print-out sheet that he carried was slick with cold sweat... However long, he had been here long enough. "What is it, Taylor?"  
  
Taylor continued to stare for a moment or two longer at the ghoulish scene before he came back to himself, his voice and manner still shaky. "The...rest of the medical equipment came back on-line...sir. At...at least...for now. We - we did standard D.N.A. tests on Mr. Morton's bite wounds... There was some blood there...that wasn't his..." He proffered the creased, dampened paper with a trembling hand. "You'd better read this, sir."  
  
Casting a puzzled glance at the troubled corpsman and then the Admiral, Doc took the paper, his eyes moving rapidly along the computer-printed words. "Blood work-up...genetic factors...an identity confirmation-" At that precise moment, the medical officer's mouth fell slack and open, his voice trailing off to nothing as he read, re-read, and re-read again the words on the printed page. "Can't be..." He regarded the corpsman sharply. "There must be some mistake."  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"But this variation here..."  
  
Taylor shrugged helplessly. "The medical computers can't make head nor tails of it -it was as if the sample was sometimes somehow fuzzy or confused even though it wasn't- but it is a 98.99% match-up to known D.N.A...."  
  
Doc shook his head in growing frustration "Are you certain!"  
  
Taylor nodded slightly, his eyes downcast, his voice small. "Yes, sir."  
  
"What is it, Doc!" Nelson snapped finally. All this while, he had listened. All this while, he had learned next to nothing...except that a simple piece of paper had his chief medical officer on the verge of fainting. "Is it about Chip, Doc?"  
  
"No, sir..." Doc murmured, disbelieving still. His medical corps was exceptional and computers did not lie... "Sir, as you know, Seaview's computer mainframe has an enormous database on the biological sciences, including an equally extensive file on the D.N.A. codes of known lifeforms."  
  
"I know that-"  
  
"Sir!" Doc cut in before the Admiral could go any further -Nelson fell silent. "That file includes D.N.A. profiles on every crew member who is serving or who has served on Seaview. The medical corps did some D.N.A. tests on some foreign blood...and saliva...in and around Chip's shoulder wound...enough to know right away that the sample was created by a hominid and enough to try for a match with Seaview's active D.N.A. profiles. Sir..." Doc hesitated again. "There were some variables -the match was only 98.99%- but we...we know who attacked him now."  
  
It was Nelson who hesitated this time. "Who..?"  
  
"Impossible... It must be..." Doc glanced at the paper again, steeling himself. "Captain Crane, sir. All the tests confirm it."  
  
He should have said something; a denial, a loud, bombastic show of disbelief, words -a long oratory pointing out how medical computers could fail and foul up like a common gumball machine -something! But the words wouldn't come. Instead, Nelson felt himself once again compelled to turn his gaze toward the silent, breached containment units.  
  
More glass crunched sharply underfoot as the Admiral hesitantly stepped forward, his eyes narrowing at the faint whisper of macabre imagination in the back of his mind; a whisper that was becoming a mental shout as he stared at the twisted metal remains, the glass on the deck...and something else. Among the bits of glittering crystal, something else sparkled...a bit of reflected yellow light. He reached toward it and his fingers closed around a small circlet of gold ...a familiar signet ring that was now stained with blood.  
  
Again, Nelson's head snapped in the direction of the cubicles, his eyes irresistibly drawn to one in particular. The ID tag was also stained, smeared with drying blood, but Nelson could still read the partially obscured name: Crane, Captain Lee B. above the cubicle, but the sorrow he had felt -and the rage over this unspeakable desecration- were gradually giving way to something his mind found difficult to accept. The unit had been breached and was as empty as the others...but...there was almost no broken glass within the unit; all, or most, of the shards littering the deck beneath his feet. His almost panicked stare darted from breached cubicle to breached cubicle -it was the same. Glass outside. Little or none inside.  
  
Horror tightened like a vise around Nelson's chest as he was forced to remember the entries in Captain Hudson's journals and Dr. Bergman's notes...those mad, mad rantings that no longer sounded so terribly insane -ravings of dead comrades that came back to haunt...to hurt. Nelson pressed a hand against his breast pocket and felt the small, hard lump of metal beneath the fabric.   
A captain's clusters... That special ring... Lee... It was true then. All of it. What had been said to have happened before, was happening now...to his crew. Nelson took in the scene of horror and destruction. Nothing had broken into the temporary resting places of his dead crew members. No-one had broken in at all.  
  
Something had broken out.  
  
  
  
8  
  
  
  
"But, Admiral -it's useless! We've been trying and we've not been able to get a single response!"  
"We'll soon see about that."  
  
Harriman Nelson was a man obsessed -a man pressed by a compulsion born of unholy inspiration and a confounding rage with no real direction, no true focus save for one thing. The corridor resounded with the low thunder of footsteps -his own and those of the others hard-pressed to keep up with his feet, determined pace, as members of work details along the way looked up from their appointed tasks with troubled, questioning surprise which quickly metamorphosed into silent concern. They had heard Chief Sharkey over the intercom only a short while ago and not a man among them could claim to be either deaf or ignorant. Whatever had happened, could not have been anything but bad -of that one thing they were very sure.  
  
The silent, questioning glances in his direction went unnoticed by the Admiral of the Seaview. Perhaps "Obsessed" wasn't strong enough a word to describe his state of mind at the moment... "Possessed" was definitely a better and far more accurate word to describe that dark emotion which seemed to have almost taken on a ungodly life of its own. He was indeed a man possessed by an idea that stood out beyond any other he had entertained or dared to consider no matter how mad it had to be...but then again, what was madness to one who had been witness to things that no sane mind would have fashioned for entertainment or imagination's sake?  
  
Doc followed at Nelson's side as deeply troubled as his admiral -perhaps more so in some ways- and a somewhat recovered Chief Sharkey followed at the rear with a number of security crewmen whose presence Nelson no longer bothered to note -as anyone who was with him now had noted several times before, he was a man possessed.  
  
Nelson's pace slowed as the group approached the main door to the Sick Bay, and he stopped before them, an outstretched hand flat against the cold smooth bulkhead, his eyes seemingly closed in concentration as he steeled himself against his own fears before he opened them again and regarded the entourage. "Bailey, Simpson, Miller, Dale -take your watches here. Doc..." The physician returned the steady gaze. "I'll need your co-operation in there."  
  
Doc's brow furrowed. "Admiral..?"  
  
"No matter what happens in there," Nelson said flatly, "and no matter what I say or do, I have to insist that you refrain from interfering."  
  
A low, troubled murmur passed amongst the gathered crewmen who in turn regarded the Chief Medical Officer who shook his head slowly; his brow furrowed even more deeply. "Admiral..." he said slowly and carefully. "I'm a doctor and I took an oath to heal and protect my patients. If you intend to do anything that will threaten the well-being of any of them, I am ethically bound to put a stop to it. You know that."  
  
Nelson's grim, lined countenance twisted with a mirthless smile. "And as admiral of this ship I am bound by my own sworn duty to do all that I can to see to the safe return of my ship and crew." He paused as he grasped the steel handle to the door. "And if that should come to occasionally require that I use force or intimidation to achieve that effect, I shall do it -and, mayhap, enjoy it. Is that understood?"  
  
"As chief medical officer, I could countermand your authority on that matter," Doc shot back, locking eyes with his superior officer, the silent tension surrounding them an almost tangible thing as everyone else waited for one officer or the other to give ground.  
  
Nelson finally broke the stillness. "Not this time."  
  
There was another lengthy silence, a battle of wills without words, as neither officer appeared willing to give an inch...but in the end, it was Doc's will that faltered first as he found himself unable to answer. He was the Chief Medical Officer and in the Sick Bay, he was admiral and fleet commander no matter what his actual rank, but he was also a man without answers, standing before an impregnable, invisible wall of confusion, and despite himself, his oath weighed unfavorably against the need for those answers. Doc sighed heavily and stepped aside.  
  
Sick Bay was quiet; quieter than it had been in a long time -at least, since this mission had gone on the skewed path on which both ship and crew found themselves right now...an almost unearthly stillness despite the softly humming monitoring equipment and the like. There were no new patients and those that remained were in no condition to make much noise were they of a mind to do so.   
  
As Nelson's almost militarily determined pace led him in the direction of the area of the Sick Bay where the least serious of the cases were being kept, he felt his gaze turn in the direction of the high-security section where Commander Morton was being kept and the crewman who had drawn security detail this watch, his young face studiously impassive despite the likelihood that he either did not want to be there so close to a source of some nebulous danger (indeed, who did?) or that he was wondering what good it was being there at all? There were times when Harriman Nelson wished that he didn't know his crew so well.  
  
Nelson suppressed a shudder that would have revealed his own unease and pressed himself to remain focused on the grim task he had set for himself, deciding that no matter how ugly the situation might become or how much of a waste of time he feared the effort might yet turn out to be, he could hardly turn back now. The suspicions that whispered in the darker recesses of this troubled admiral's mind were of the sort that gave birth to nightmares or madness, but they would no longer be denied or silenced by accepted logic. Perhaps he was dancing on that thin line between insanity and reason....but he had to know for once and for all. He had to know if he had actually stumbled on the unthinkable.  
  
Nelson gestured with a slight tilt of his head and everyone but Doc fell back, waiting with ill-suppressed unease, as he approached the medical bunk. Corpsman Thibideau was alone in this small section of the Sick Bay, unchanged it seemed, from when he had been brought aboard Seaview -a ghostly pale, painfully thin, staring and seemingly mindless being who could have easily been mistaken for one of those pseudo-human department store mannequins save for the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath the sterile white sheet and the heartbeat that Doc could hear through his stethoscope. Doc removed the earpieces from his ears and pocketed the stethoscope as he reluctantly stepped back, leaving the playing field to the Admiral.  
  
"I think that it is about time that we had a little talk, Lieutenant Thibideau." Nelson paused, waiting, but there was no response; not so much as intake of breath out of rhythm or a twitch of an eyebrow that would indicate that he had been heard let alone understood. Doc shook his head slightly. Nelson ignored him. "Lieutenant Thibideau...I somehow doubt that I need to apprise you of our situation -some, you likely know yourself and some things, no doubt, passed through loose lips- but I suspect that you know things of which we know precious little...such as what we are dealing with...this thing that boarded my ship from Delta with my crew." Still no response...as Thibideau remained silent and immobile.  
  
Doc sighed heavily, his opinion confirmed. "It's as I told you, Admiral. He-"  
  
The Admiral's movements were almost faster than his tense following's ability to follow. It appeared that in the space of time that it had taken one to blink, he had unholstered his personal side-arm -and was now pointing the thick black barrel directly in between the insensate corpsman's eyes, his finger on the trigger. "I'm growing quite weary of this game of silence, Lieutenant. I know that you can hear me -I've suspected it for quite awhile- and I am well aware that Canadian servicemen can speak English as well as French, so understand this: Delta produced a madness-inducing plague that's now aboard this vessel. It has caused my best men to profane, kill, and die -and you know what it is! So, unless you wish to join the ranks of the dead a little sooner than the rest of us, you are going to start talking!" Nelson's finger tightened ever so slightly on the trigger. "You have ten seconds -and if you can understand anything at all, read my expression and you'll know that I am not bluffing. Ten..."  
  
Doc glanced sharply from patient to admiral, his face etched with mounting horror. "Admiral, no! You can't!"  
  
"Nine..." Nelson's expression grew harder, the finger tightening further still. "Eight..."  
  
"Admiral!"  
  
"Seven..."  
  
"You didn't burn them." For a moment, there was no noise. Nelson's finger involuntarily relaxed its dangerous grip on the trigger of his service weapon as Doc stood there, his mouth an "o" of disbelief as the pale, gaunt figure beneath the sheets of the bunk stirred slightly, his eyes blinking and then turning to focus on Nelson...fully aware. "You didn't burn the bodies -I'd heard that you hadn't," Thibideau stated in a nearly mechanical monotone, but the dull mask lifted just for a moment, his eyes flashing. "You were supposed to incinerate them -why didn't you?"  
  
Nelson winced inwardly, Thibideau's words reminding him of the order he had not really forgotten, but had put out of his mind as other things had come to press upon him and difficulty upon difficulty had made a delay of execution of that order unavoidable...but the moment passed, personal anguish hidden once again behind a military mask, as he icily regarded the corpsman whose pale eyes remained trained on him, wide like those of an accusing child. Nelson re-sheathed his side-arm. "Would it have made a difference, Lieutenant?"  
  
"Maybe...I don't know for sure -just maybe." Thibideau sank back against his heavily creased pillows, his expression once again dull and passionless, his eyes focused on personal visions of the mind that only he could see before uttering a small, mirthless laugh and again met Nelson's eyes. "It would have killed them. At least, I think it would have."  
  
"Killed..." The word came from between Nelson's tightly pressed lips as a low hiss, his temples reddening as his hands darted out and he roughly grabbed the corpsman by the arms, forcing him to sit. "Are you a madman as well as a prevaricator? Those crewmen...the - the commanding officer of this ship...are already dead!"  
  
Thibideau's pinched, pallid face suddenly flushed a dark, angry red, his eyes almost blazing as the words suddenly exploded from his mouth: "Are you dense! They weren't dead! They were never dead! Mon Dieu -they are NOT dead!"  
  
Dead silence. An overwhelming stillness seemed to envelope all of those gathered...not a breath seemingly drawn...not even the soft murmur of voices muttering in derision or simple disbelief. Nelson took a step back from the Canadian corpsman, releasing him, as the words echoed in his brain. More proof of things he had at once suspected, denied, and feared, but did not dare believe even now. Not dead. "What..." Nelson questioned weakly, a last, dying ember of doubt in his voice. "What...the Devil...do you mean?"  
  
The haggard corpsman pushed himself up into a hunched-over sitting position, his thin figure trembling as he dashed aside the matted, stringy strands of carrot-colored hair that had pasted themselves over his brow as he began to...laugh. It was a low, disjointed sound that went on as his small audience regarded each other as if one or the other should be able to divine the reason behind it.   
Thibideau looked up at that moment, the weak, crazed laugh dying in his throat as he met Nelson's penetrating stare, his own young countenance suddenly hard; a pale mask full of bitterness. "You don't get, do you? Any of you. You really don't get it. The virus doesn't kill. Le mort..." Thibideau shook his head frustratedly, recalling his English. "The death...the death is an incubative state of some sort-"  
  
"-with vital signs so low that our compromised equipment could not detect them." Thibideau nodded, eyes downcast, at the Admiral's tentative conclusion. "My... My God in Heaven..." Nelson's hand went to the back of his head, the fingers massaging a stabbing pulse at the juncture between skull and spinal column. To suspect...to fear the worst impossibility was one thing -a terrible thing- but to learn that a forgotten nightmare was bursting into waking reality was infinitely worse.   
Bits and pieces of gore-soaked dreams had begun to swirl in this admiral's mind, no longer hidden by the obscuring cloak of wakeful consciousness -fractured images of gnashing teeth and ruby eyes...a Seaview crippled seemingly beyond all hope...a ghostly warning...and Lee- Nelson's eyes flashed with rage at the cruel deception that this ashen-faced deceiver had helped to perpetuate. "You are saying that...my crewmen, my...the Captain of this ship...are still alive!"  
  
Thibideau peered at the Admiral through obscuring, limp strands of ginger hair, a thin humorless smile on his lips. "Oui... Alive... If you can call it 'living'." He uttered a feeble laugh. "Damn... I need a cigarette."  
  
Automatically, Nelson reached for the secreted pack in his breast pocket and the disposable lighter with it, regarding the items clenched within his fingers for a moment or two before he tossed both to the corpsman who caught them easily. Thibideau greedily pulled one stick out, lit it, and then dragged on it with open relief, the embers in the lit-end glowing brightly before he exhaled a bluish-grey cloud through his nostrils, not apparently troubled by the ugly scowl that Doc cast in his direction, and proffered the pack and the lighter to the Admiral. Nelson shook his head slightly. "Keep them. I...don't need them anymore." Thibideau shrugged in response. "And now, Lieutenant -the rest of it."  
  
Thibideau sighed heavily. "What do you want me to tell you?" he asked quietly. "About when things started to go wrong? The project was probably wrong from the start -my captain seemed to think so...but by that time, he wasn't exactly himself. He was probably right though...never could figure out how so many things could go wrong so specifically. I can tell you about how everyone believed that the pain, anorexia, and death were all that we had to face when dealing with Project M.I.N.A's awful creation...or when the first of the victims...the first we knew not to actually be dead...was seen up and around...walking...hungry."  
  
Thibideau paused and studied the burning opposite end of his cigarette, staring at the dull red glow for a time as if mesmerized. "One of Delta's technicians was the first to see someone that had died and been put into cold storage...alive. I don't know why the victims of the V2 strain of the virus hadn't been incinerated like the victims of the first experiments...mais...but Dr. Ionescu had ordered the cremations to be discontinued and at the time, he still had the authority ...stupid rules. Either way, this technician saw a guy he himself had put into cold storage. No-one believed him, of course."  
  
"Who would?" Sharkey muttered sourly.  
  
"Indeed." Thibideau stared at the cigarette and at the thin column of cinders which had begun to curl downwards, and then slowly, deliberately, crushed the already almost spent tobacco stick between his fingers, hot grey ash staining the digits as he grimaced silently, lips drawn tight against his teeth. "It was the first report...but it was not the last. Others followed, made by men under pressure -true- but sound-minded men and women...and then, staff members started to go missing -all explainable occurrences...or so we all convinced ourselves -or allowed ourselves to be convinced, but then, two of the animal labs were found broken into-"  
  
Nelson glanced at Doc sharply. "Delta was not under the same constraints as most conventional facilities against the use of animals in experimentation...and there were quite a few test-subject animals. All together, maybe fifty rabbits...a hundred mice...sixty guinea pigs...a dozen monkeys..." Thibideau sighed aloud. "Almost every one of them in those two labs had been torn apart...and exsanguined. Then medical stores were found sacked of blood -plasma and whole, no particular type..." A small, crazed laugh escaped from Thibideau's mouth. "But even that wasn't the worst of it. Ironically, it was Dr. Ionescu who caught one of our 'victims' in the act of feeding...by security camera, I think...attacking and feeding on some poor lab assistant who had had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time -she was the first attack victim. Exsanguination..."  
  
Thibideau's grey young countenance twisted with a scowl of disgust. "Ionescu put a bullet through his brain not an hour later -cowardly son of a bitch. He knew what he'd created and when he actually saw what he'd done, he took the easy way out...and left us to deal with it."  
  
"Exsanguination! I know that word!" Sharkey snapped, cutting in before anyone could say or add another word. "I read it somewheres. It's just a big word for blood-drinking, ain't it? You're tryin' to say that this disease is creating vampires, for Chris'sakes! Vampires!"  
  
There was a new silence, Thibideau's audience waiting for him to deny what Seaview's chief of the boat had said, but instead, the corpsman paused, staring for a moment at the fresh cigarette he had pulled out of the foil and paper pack, before regarding the Chief with a faint, almost pleasant smile. "Give the man a prize -he got it."   
  
No-one else said a word.  
  
  
  
  
A low hiss issued from between clenched teeth as a pallid face pressed unseen against the hard, cold metal of a ventilation grate...listening...slow, ragged breath drawn from a heaving chest as sensitive eyes blinked against the stinging glare beyond the perforated metal barrier.  
  
He didn't like the light...avoided it whenever and where ever he could. It was an anathema to him, blinding his eyes and burning his skin, leaving tender wheals of red and purple when exposed for more than a few minutes -only to disappear when safely surrounded by the cool cocoon of darkness...but voices -familiar voices- that had stirred a terrible longing he no longer really understood, had drawn him here...and somehow, the instinctive needs that confounded his fevered brain, hadn't tried to stop him. The need was quiet right now -sleeping because it had been sated...for a time...allowing the trapped human part of him to peep beyond the impregnable confines of its mental prison while not really allowing it to be free. He could long for comfort...but he could not seek it.  
  
Rubine eyes blinked rapidly against saltless tears as he forced himself to continue to remain where he was, hidden, in the face of the light. Some part of him remembered the owners of those voices; mental scraps fluttering briefly before internal sight. Sharkey was there, and so were Doc and that stranger...and the Admiral. As his eyes were drawn to the shimmering gold stars on the Admiral's shirt collar, blood-stained fingers instinctively, tentatively, reached toward the torn, ragged place on his own collar where part of a captain's clusters belonged...but was not. Where..? His brow furrowed as a little memory came -an image, vague, of bright gold. Chip... Chip had torn it off when he had tried to-  
  
A low cry, muffled by the fist he crammed against his mouth, escaped unbidden as the trickle became a torrent and memory suddenly exploded within his brain -images of tearing, biting, and the taste of human blood thick with terror- and just as suddenly began to disintegrate, falling between proverbial fingers even as he tried to grasp at them. Like an angry viper whose rest had been disturbed, the need had begun to stir and hiss within him, his secondary incisors already beginning to extend in perverse anticipation of the continuation of the chase and the kill.  
  
But not yet.  
  
The need was not fully awake and he had a little time before he could no longer resist the compulsion to hunt and feed...and so, he stayed. But for what? That was the question. He had become two beings in one flesh -as certainly as one wanted to beg for help and release at the hands of those beyond his small, dark sanctum, the other would have attacked, rending flesh from bone and feeding from the resulting red flood. God...  
  
He leaned against the metal grate, the cold steel pressing against the burning sallow skin of his cheek as he drew what physical comfort he could from the metal's chilled kiss, eyes closing and then snapping open as his new senses automatically reached out beyond the tight confines of this darkened crawlspace. Another like him was close-by and coming closer -he could sense him as certainly as if they were in fleshly contact...and the other could certainly sense him.  
  
Almost at once, the partially recessed secondary incisors extended in full and a brief half-smile crossed his thin lips, his eyes darting from the grate to the shaft's dark recesses and turns that stretched on into the distance.  
  
The need could wait a little longer.  
  
  
  
  
"Admiral?"  
  
Nelson blinked, momentarily bewildered, as the Chief Medical Officer's voice filtered through the invisible fog that had surrounded his brain for a moment, and slowly looked away from the bulkhead-mounted ventilation grate that had somehow, however briefly, bound his attention.  
  
Why he had suddenly focused his entire attention on such an ordinary object, he could not presently fathom -there was nothing there of particular interest, the cloth pendant that indicated the rush and flow of recirculated air still flapped gently against the perforated metal barrier and the dark recesses within...and he had far more important things on which to dwell at the present time. Whatever the reason, whatever the transient fancy, he had little time to meditate on it.  
  
Nelson nodded sheepishly in Doc's direction as the Chief Medical Officer led the troubled retinue towards the high security area of the Sick Bay.  
  
The group's number had been reduced to four -the security detail silently waited at its post and the corpsmen that had followed waited in the Sick Bay's ante-room on Doc's orders  
...but the reasons had much more to do with a need for privacy than any actual consideration for any of the Sick Bay's other patients in the sections nearby. Save for one, this closed-off section of the Sick Bay was empty...and Nelson realized that despite what he knew, and how important it was for the rest of the crew to eventually know, it was important, also, to gain a complete understanding of what he thought he knew before that knowledge could be fully revealed.   
  
As horrible and threatening as this admiral's partial wisdom was, he was fully aware that a fractured truth carried by the loose lips of a frightened sailor was infinitely worse -panic could do to his crew what their deadly biohazardous enemy could not. Until a plan could be made -if it could be made- the less said, the better...at least, for now.  
  
Doc accepted Commander Morton's medical chart from an ashen-faced corpsman who made his exit from the area with scarcely hidden relief, released finally from a watch no-one really wanted, medical corps or no, leaving the group alone with the lone patient.  
  
"Well, Doc?" Nelson demanded.  
  
The Chief Medical Officer's lined brow creased all the more as he scanned both the written pages and computer print-outs that were clipped together, his lips pressed with consternation. "I'll be quite frank, Admiral... I've never seen readings like these -heart rate, blood pressure, metabolism- none of them are following any normal human guidelines of which I am aware. Even though Commander Morton is unconscious, his nervous and endocrine systems in particular appear to be under some kind of extensive stimulation...cellular regeneration is off-scale..."   
  
Doc flipped one page and then, another. "The administration of sedating agents has had to be increased twice to maintain any effect at all -the levels are at a point that should be toxic for a man of Chip's height and weight, and Chip has had three units of whole blood transfused to combat what seems to be some kind of anemia-like condition in the last two hours...but there's no evidence of where the blood is going." Doc let the hard report cover fall shut. "It's...it's as if the Commander is...well...just drinking it, absorbing it like a sponge!"  
  
"He is."  
  
"Don't start that again!" Chief Sharkey had turned on corpsman Thibideau, his face an angry red, his fists clenched as though ready to strike. "One more crack like that and I'll-"  
  
"Easy, Francis, easy...let him speak his piece." Sharkey locked eyes with his admiral for a long moment and for a time, it appeared as if he might direct his anger -and fear- on the superior officer instead...but by and by, the moment passed and the Chief Petty Officer relented, his shoulders slumping with the release of tension as he nodded slowly and backed off, standing aside with no little difficulty.  
  
Situation diffused...for the time anyway...and Nelson found that he didn't have it in him to blame his friend for his actions -Sharkey had only expressed the feelings he himself felt and felt obligated now to keep hidden for the sake of the crew. Though Harriman Nelson would admit it to no-one but God and himself, he had come very close to truly losing control with Thibideau a short while ago -the act with the threats and the gun had come too close to not being an act.  
  
Nelson regarded the Canadian corpsman, his eyes narrow with a mixture of his own anger and an equal measure of suspicion thrown in. There was no point, he knew, in directing the bulk of his anger towards the young medical officer who stood there with apparent unconcern, an unlit cigarette perched between his lips -information had to be gathered and the lack of truth drugs (notoriously unreliable at best) made gaining his willful cooperation a necessity- but this admiral was as human as the next man and Thibideau was proving a better target than most -but not right now. Not even though he had to know the full truth...about the commanding officer of this ship...about all of the victims. "Well, Lieutenant, you said that you had a great deal more to tell us -I suggest that you get on with it...or I will let my chief petty officer here convince you in whatever manner he might desire."  
  
Thibideau glanced at the Chief, who stood rubbing his fists as if in impatient anticipation, and then at Nelson, and nodded, cowed for the moment by the threat which he did not doubt he would carry out. For now, the mask of insolence with which he hid his own fears was gone, and in its place, morose silence. He regarded the still, quiet figure bound to the medical bunk. If it was at all possible, Commander Morton was paler than when his comrades had last seen him -as if the color was slowly bleeding out of him drop by drop, leaving his skin sallow and waxen with only the slightest flush at the lips and cheeks ...unmarred now by the bruises and scratches that had been there only hours before, as if their viral enemy was a conscious and vain thing that would not countenance living in anything that was anything but perfectly physically whole.  
  
"He's not really asleep, y'know," Thibideau said quietly, observing the nearly indiscernible rise and fall of Morton's chest. "At least, it's not what we would know as sleep. Doc Laurier, our... Voyageur's chief medical officer called it a...'resting' state -I don't doubt that he can hear everything that we are saying right now."  
  
Nelson studied the seemingly insensate executive officer uneasily. "But does he actually understand any of it?"  
  
"Yes." Memories -still fresh, still painful- washed over Thibideau's mind, his eyes momentarily closed against them as though the effort would banish the grim mental images forever -but it didn't...and he knew then as he had always known that they would be with him for a lifetime -perhaps longer. When the corpsman opened his eyes, his troubled audience was still there...still waiting.  
  
Once again, the non-committal mask dropped over his own grey features. "Tests were done at Delta and on Voyageur on the few active plague victims we were able to capture. When fed...and heavily drugged, they were -at times- quite lucid and able to tell us things we might not have been able to find out on our own." Thibideau stared at the ghosts of sanguine stains on his hands. "The chief of my boat was one -he told us most of what we came to know about their psychological make-up...and then begged me to put him out of his misery -which I did."   
  
Thibideau closed his eyes again, feeling once more the handle of a fire-axe in his hands, its arcing swing past his shoulders, hot blood splattering him from head to toe, the thump of dead flesh hitting the floor at his feet... "It was the only way -the nervous system must be completely cut-off for..." He shuddered visibly. "The sickness leaves its victim sentient...a thinking creature ...but twists the ability to respond. Instinct is all -they're drawn to friends, seeking help, by scraps of memory, but the Sickness makes them kill instead."  
  
"And now we have we have two viruses instead of one," Doc stated grimly. "One more virulent than the other."  
  
"Not so," Thibideau countered quickly. "Non... There's only one disease, but there are three distinct stages -V1, V2, and V3. No-one realized that at first. There was no mutation ...just three natural stages of the one disease. A person afflicted with V1 will suffer V2 and V3 eventually. Persons infected by a victim suffering V3 will themselves suffer V3. No coma state, just gradual and inevitable transformation...and the thirst." Thibideau noted the immediate silence. "You don't believe me -even after all you have seen- do you?"  
  
"The reality of a pica-like condition is not unknown to the medical sciences, Lieutenant, as you yourself would know," Doc shot back, "but by and large, the condition is...wholly psychological and not some physical Dracula-virus. What you've described is an actual need to sustain oneself on blood -true vampirism- which is scientifically impossible."  
  
"Is it?" Thibideau retorted, his expression hardening all the further. "Don't female mosquitoes feed blood to their larval young? The Vampire Finch supplements its diet with the blood of other fowl -is that an impossibility? Don't we maintain a parasitic existence for the nine months preceding our own births, feeding on our own mother's blood ? Don't we?" No answer. Thibideau shook his head wearily and uttered a low, mirthless cackle. The non-response was no more than he had really expected -and dreaded- but even when he had been keeping his silence, he had hoped for so much more -especially from the crew of the Seaview.  
  
There was no solid proof -certainly none that an ordinary seaman could access- that the American research submarine had encountered even half of the things that scuttlebutt said that she had, but every InterAllied Navy man (or woman for that matter) that he knew would swear that when there was talk or reports of some far-reaching paranormal phenomena at sea, the S.S.R.N. Seaview almost always seemed to come into the picture...and yet, he had to prove what he knew even to them. "All right..." the weary corpsman muttered, his voice flat and without expression. "It's obvious you want proof that can't be denied -solid proof. You shall have it." A small glint of cold silver metal caught Thibideau's eyes as he visually scanned the medical room. "Ah, Docteur... I'll have to borrow this scalpel, if you don't mind..."  
  
The flip comment caught the Seaview's chief medical officer unawares and his brow lined with open puzzlement as he saw the young corpsman reach for a portable surgical instrument tray near them. "What do you-" Before the words were spoken and completed, to the incredulity of those present, the medical instrument was in the Canadian corpsman's outstretched hand and just as quickly was turned in his grasp so that the micro-fine blade was pointed down, his hand moving in a small quick arc that had the silver blade stained with wet red as the razor-like edge bit into his extended finger and warm sanguine fluid bubbled to the surface of the breached flesh.  
  
Thibideau grimaced and dropped the stained instrument into a contaminated-waste container as Doc rushed forward, determined to deal with the results of an obviously botched suicide attempt, but Thibideau extended his uninjured, unstained hand in the manner of a traffic cop calling for a halt and said quietly and simply: "Wait. Look."  
  
Everyone present could already smell the rank, metallic odor of fresh human blood and pulled by what instinct they knew not, followed Thibideau's unblinking train of vision...and reacted with disbelief, each glancing at the other as if to ask for confirmation of what his senses were telling him. Shackled though he was...deeply and heavily drugged though he was...the insensate executive officer had begun to stir in his strange deep sleep like a man fighting to waken from a bad dream, his unconscious expression one of emotional confusion or pain, his freshly bitten, bruised lips pulled back in a grimace. Doc's own mouth worked silently and then with a whisper: "Oh...my...God..."  
  
Hidden no longer by wan facial flesh, just above the normal tooth-line, two tiny and clearly wickedly sharp nascent secondary incisors not unlike small serpentine fangs had broken through the thin sheath of livid flesh and were beginning to extend further, protruding now down and over the teeth of the upper gums...and there also, just before the teeth of the lower jaw, smaller fangs began to break through the bleeding flesh in Chip Morton's mouth -upper and lower fangs.   
His demonstration done, Thibideau quickly stepped back as Doc came back to himself and promptly wrapped a bandage around the bloody wound on the corpsman's finger...and as he did, as the stench of antiseptic replaced the metallic stink of human blood, the unconscious executive officer once again seemed to relax, the nascent incisors retreating into hidden recesses within the gums out of sight...and slept.  
  
"He's in an advanced stage of the disease," Thibideau stated as Doc studiously attended the wound that the enigmatic corpsman had inflicted upon himself, "but I don't think he's anywhere nearly as far along as the others must be by now. Transfusing the blood that he needs, instead of allowing him to ingest it, will help to keep him that way...for a little while, at least."  
  
"Can you tell for how long?" Doc asked in strained tones as he finished binding the bloody cut. "Can you give us some idea?"  
  
Thibideau stared at the insensate form of Chip Morton for a long moment before answering in a tired voice. "No. Not really -there seems no one incubation period for this illness." He paused again, seemingly steeling himself. "I also cannot say for how long these present restraints will be able to bind him once the transformation is complete. We...my crew and I could not for very long either...and the presence of the secondary fangs indicate that he has entered a phase when it is especially expedient that you do so."  
  
"Especially expedient?" Nelson said, matching Thibideau's grim tone. "Why especially expedient?"  
  
"The fangs -they are self-regenerating...and hollow." Thibideau explained with open impatience, forgetting for a moment that though he had explained all this several times, it had not been to the crew of the Seaview. He sighed aloud, prudently adopting a more conciliatory tone of voice. "By the time that your commander's transformation is complete, the fangs will lead to what Delta's biologists had deduced are primary and secondary venom sacs. At this point, the sacs are probably too small and unformed to be seen easily if at all, but when they are mature, they will carry and be able to discharge a viscous fluid heavily contaminated with the living virus...a concentration far greater than that in a carrier's blood or bodily fluids." Thibideau's voice dropped further. "There was some conjecture amongst the scientists of Delta that it might be the primary way this new species would procreate."  
  
"How..?" Nelson stared at his executive officer, his own normally ruddy visage blanching a sickly white with horror over things that the primal part of his psyche had always suspected and his logical, reasoning self could no longer deny. "What is this? A deal with the Devil himself! Some perverse magic! What manner of madness could possess men and women of science to-"  
  
"-the quest for knowledge and power, Admiral." Thibideau stuffed his hands into the pockets of his medical robe. "Pure science has no heart...no soul...and its pursuit has often been known to have had little to do with moral inhibitions, allowing it the limitations only of human imagination -and Dr. Ionescu's imagination went much farther than most.   
"My captain learned that the vampiric nature of the disease was no accident. Dr. Bergman told him that whatever Dr. Ionescu's original intent, he had come to realize the value of a superhuman killer...one that consumes his enemy...and cannot himself be killed ...and Dr. Ionescu had been known to joke that a vampire, under proper control, would be an efficient soldier/killing machine..."   
  
"Hence the name Project M.I.N.A.?" Nelson demanded through tightened lips, understanding all too much at once.  
  
Thibideau uttered a small, bitter laugh. "Quite creative actually, don't you think? Ionescu loved the old classics -Dracula most of all. M.I.N.A. may be an acronym, but the project has always really been named after that girl in the book -Mina Murray-Harker -the victim and intended bride of the king of vampires..." A weak smile animated the young corpsman's haggard face. "But all the jokes aside -his creation couldn't...can't ultimately be controlled for very long. Denying a victim their nourishment only slows the progression of the disease -it can't stop it. And they... they can't, no, they won't be taught to run and fetch, and obey like some ordinary kind of pet."  
  
Doc slumped against the bulkhead, his grey countenance drawn with weariness as he struggled to absorb and accept what he had just learned and seen...so much of it flying in the face of what he had been taught. "How...how can we fight this? How can we fight a disease that can do all this and yet remain invisible?"  
  
Thibideau regarded the exhausted physician with some sympathy. "Your microscopes -what is their present maximum magnification?"  
  
Doc thought for a moment, searching his memory. "Normally, fifty million times normal magnification...but I wouldn't swear to that presently. Why?"  
  
"But they should have the capacity to go higher, non?"  
  
"When the repairs are complete," Doc admitted, intrigued despite himself, "and with some modifications possibly."   
  
Thibideau hesitated, his expression haunted. "Then, if you are able, magnify any samples that you have by no less than five billion times and you will find this Project M.I.N.A. virus -just as we did...but too late to help."  
  
"So small... So very small and alien that our decontamination units and tests could not find it. So small that the body can't fight it because it doesn't really realize that its even there until..." Nelson regarded the young corpsman, his pale eyes narrowing with a loathing that he couldn't bother denying to himself that he felt and was hard-pressed to cloak. Crane...Kowalski...Riley...all of the others... Alive still, but in some kind of Earth-bound hell... "You...knew all of this. All along, you had this information -information that we could have used. In God's name, why didn't you tell us all this before now!"  
  
"I had my orders, Admiral," Thibideau murmured, eyes downcast. "There are groups outside of any government -small, secret, powerful groups that have the immovable conviction that bio-weaponry must remain a viable alternative to conventional warfare and nuclear arms. One such group requested that when I arrived at Delta that I should observe and report whether I felt that the monies they had invested in Dr. Ionescu's private venture were being well used -and whether he was on the original tangent on which he had started when he had approached them for their investment; something they themselves had begun to doubt...   
  
"They gave me only the information they felt that I need to know to complete the assignment, but they would not tell me exactly what they feared -however, they did make very clear the crippling 'accident' I would have if I refused or revealed their request." Thibideau drew a heavy breath. "All things considered, their threats mean very little to me anymore."  
  
"Admiral...sir..." Sharkey interjected, a tremor of growing unease in his gruff voice. "If...   
If our men are still alive -we've gotta save them, don't we? So's we can help them?"  
  
"You're right, Francis," Nelson concurred cautiously. But the question remained -how could the victims of this plague be helped...if they could be helped at all? And if they couldn't -something that he did not even want to consider- how could they possibly be kept in check...incarcerated...when they had proven that they could punch their way through something as tough as super-tempered heavily alloyed plexi-glass? But he had to find a way. If there was a single chance, he had to take it -for all their sakes. They were his men. "At least, we have some idea of their numbers...that could be of some help."  
  
"Are you sure, Admiral?" Thibideau interrupted, his damp brow bathed in a small circle of golden light as he lit the new cigarette perched between his lips. "What about crew members missing or presumed dead or not even known as missing? As I understand it, there are still some areas of the ship flooded and sealed off, crewmen still within -are you so sure that there is no way that anyone could get from those areas back into the rest of the ship unnoticed? Are you so certain about them?"  
  
"For God's sake, man..." Doc said, almost choking on the words."Those poor souls drowned..."  
  
"Drowned..." Thibideau muttered sourly. "And the first known victims among this crew were sealed in chambers filled with a freezing atmosphere that they should not have been able to breath...but they're out there, aren't they?"  
  
Harriman Nelson did not answer -nor did anyone else- because, in truth, there was no certainty anymore...and they knew it if they knew nothing else. Just then, before confused thought could become confused action, a familiar electronic tone sounded from the bulkhead-mounted speaker. "This is corpsman Taylor to Sick Bay -please respond!"  
  
Doc started and grabbed the wall mike, clicking it rapidly. "This is Doc, Taylor -what is it?"  
  
"Sir..." came the tinny voice, obviously shaky even over the low crackling of the compromised communications' device. "I-I just arrived at the containment area...to bag Gill and Roderiguez. Sir... They're gone!"  
  
The medical officer's countenance went blank and white, a mirror of those who stood in his company. "You mean -someone else bagged them?"  
  
"No, sir. I checked. They... They're just not here!"  
  
The mike remained in Doc's hand, but he did not speak as a new, dread-filled silence reigned over all of them -complete until Thibideau broke the stillness, his own voice small. "They'll be coming out in force soon."  
  
  
  
  
Water.  
  
Cold, dark, rushing and pressing against the hard, metal eggshell that was the hull of this giant submersible -he could smell the dank odor of it even from here even though the doubly-thick steel/titanium barrier was unbreached and intact here and the flooded areas securely sealed off -mostly anyway- the smell of it permeating the two layers of super-stressed alloy, the bulkheads, everything...and he could feel it somehow though the bitter liquid could not actually touch his fevered skin...could hear it even above the low and constant hum of opening and closing circuitry, the mechanisms that had recently come on-line, above human voices that spoke in mostly fearful hushed tones...above the constant, rapid rhythm of his own heart...  
  
...and for a while, he remembered who he was, the name he had been given upon his natural birth, and where he was only to lose all but a few of those poor recollections among a maelstrom of twisted mental images and instincts that made as little sense as the overwhelming drive to follow them.  
  
Still... He remembered a little, at least -enough to know he was in a situation that he had not expected and was unlikely to win no matter how much the perverse whispers in his brain told him that he needed to. The instinctive drives within his reborn body -those of hunting, feeding, surviving- had drawn him to this place along the dark passages within the great inert submarine ...needs further enflamed by the strong metallic scent of human blood recently shed, perhaps by those beings who presence had attracted his attention in the first place.  
  
He hadn't wanted to come, but neither wit nor will could ultimately defy what the need told him to do. Sharkey... Nelson... The names were vaguely familiar to him -familiar enough to evoke a low moan of anguish at the thought of what he had to do...as familiar as the sound of their voices. But he could not reach them.  
  
He had sensed the presence of another in this shaft long before his sensitive eyes had pierced the darkness to actually see him, but until now, he had had no perception of danger. That had changed. The reborn did not attack their own to feed off each other -their own blood was intolerably bitter- but nothing forbade them to challenge for food and territory. This presence he had sensed before as a lowly and lesser being among the reborn, one who until now might have been easily cowed and driven from his hunting grounds with little more than a silent challenge... the locking of eyes, but this was no longer so...and somehow, he was not all that surprised.  
  
As nocturnal eyes met nocturnal eyes, he saw the face of one he seemed to have known a lifetime ago, twisted as his feverish brain imagined his own to be...but the face of his captain nonetheless. A low growl issued from the shadow-shrouded figure as it remained crouched, barring the way to the area of painful light and the living source of nourishment within it...still...fangs extended in full and then...as certainly as if it had been spoken aloud, he heard his name.  
  
//'Ski...//The dark figure's eyes darted in the direction of the grate and then back, unwavering and harsh. //Admiral...mine//  
  
An instant stretched into an eternity as they remained locked in mental challenge, neither willing to give ground, his own fractured memories vying with the brutally ravenous instinctive compulsions of his new body; odd bits of recorded thought reminding him of one thing if nothing else -in his humanity, he had never been able to best the man he knew as his captain in physical combat. Certainly not alone. And certainly not now. Both challenger and challenged knew it as they stared at each other in stony silence, speaking words without sound...  
  
The endless instant finally passed as time seemed to suddenly resume its normal rhythm, a soft growl inching up his heaving diaphragm and finally issuing from between his clenched fangs as he reluctantly ceded, slowly -cautiously- backing away from his adversary and into the darkness of the long ventilation shaft ...aware of those dark, rubine eyes upon him all the while until his adversary turned aside, no longer interested in a challenge that no longer existed.  
  
But for this once and former seaman, there was no distraction. The fact was that he was still hungry -that much had not changed- and the thirst was a thunder in his brain, gradually crushing what little sense of personal identity that he still possessed. He needed to feed.   
  
Now.   
  
Little else mattered.  
  
Somewhere at the edges of his still-new perceptions, he sensed the presence of other changelings -some only newly reborn and others restless because what nourishment came their way or what they could snatch in areas of half-light were proving no longer enough to satisfy their needs which grew with each new rebirth. There were one or two others shadowing him -not for challenge...no, he could sense that that wasn't their intent...just following him...curious to see what he would find as he began to track the lure of another familiar scent to where he knew it would lead.  
  
The annoyance over lost prey had faded -he barely remembered it at all now- leaving unfettered instinct and little more than the memory of a name that he had once known so well.  
  
Patterson.  
  
  
  
  
Stiff pages were turned by an unsteady hand.  
  
A troubled frown darkened seaman Patterson's already creased brow all the further, a fine mottling of common dust that settled onto the page from the still slightly polluted recirculated atmosphere still clinging to the tips of his fingers, as he studied his hand, digits outstretched, noting the slight tremor in them...and then bunched them into a tight fist as he willed the transient anxiety back into a little invisible box deep within his mind...almost succeeding.  
  
But not quite.  
  
He let the hand drop limply to his side and reacted dully at the small sharp pain as his knuckles hit the long hard metal body of the emergency electronic torch which sat dumbly beside him. The flashlight was a precaution -probably, likely, a thoroughly unnecessary one- against the shadows that seemed far too many since someone in the engineering corps -didn't know who and didn't care- had suggested a reduction in power use to Seaview's internal lighting array, leaving it burning much too darkly for his tastes. Though he could see well enough to read without the flashlight, he kept the torch within reach at all times -just in case. In case of what, he was still not entirely certain, but "in case" any way.   
  
As of late, the darkness made him very nervous.  
  
A wince crossed Patterson's quietly troubled features as the page turned beneath his fingers, the soft crinkling sound of it somehow too loud, almost as loud it seemed, as the creaking of box-springs against mattress as he slowly shifted his weight slightly on the bunk on which he reclined in this section of the crew's quarters.  
  
The seaman froze in mid-movement for a moment, eyes searching shadows, ears straining to differentiate between the familiar sounds of distant repair details and...nothing. Nothing unusual. And why would there have been? Going off the deep-end...losing what sanity you had, Pat... Patterson shook his head slightly, exorcising the mocking tones of his id and relaxed a little...barely.  
Nerves on edge.   
Could not sleep.   
  
Doc had released the young enlisted man from Sick Bay -after his apparent, brief, grief-induced dementia had passed- on the understanding that this seaman would try to get some decent rest...but that was a thing easier said than done. His brain, subconscious and otherwise, was still too active with thoughts and ideas he knew that no sane man should have been thinking -but he was thinking them anyway. Maybe he was going mad...despite what Doc had said.  
  
Doc had been very patient, explaining to him with great detail and understanding how an emotional shock could trick the human brain, forcing the eyes to see and the ears to hear what didn't exist, and he had prudently made the pretense of complete comprehension and agreement with the learned medical officer -for no-one actually wanted to be fitted for a jacket with eight-foot wrap-around sleeves. Perhaps he had made a mistake... He just wasn't sure anymore. Unlike most nocturnal fantasies that passed into nothing with the passage of time, he could not shake a certain memory which was now indelibly printed on his brain -that of a friend...of Kowalski...speaking to him -dead and yet...alive.  
  
Patterson sighed aloud, the sound of it loud to his ears, as his dark eyes moved left to right rapidly along the printed pages of the hard-bound book resting in his hands -this was truly madness, wasn't it? As close a pair of friends as he and Kowalski had always been, Kowalski had never been able to fathom his fascination with things spiritual, the strange...matters of the occult.   
  
The book he held was just one of the hundreds he had collected over the years -most of which remained hidden in sundry boxes in his old room at his family's farm in Kansas, and as he re-read the title silently, Patterson found his private belief in a cosmically ordered universe where no such thing as mere coincidence existed all the more confirmed: The Vampire: His Kith and Kin by Montague Summers -65th reprint. On a simple whim, he had brought this book on vampires along with him to help wile away the few off-duty hours when he couldn't sleep, and now, he thought...feared...knew that he had seen something he had never expected to see save on a theater screen or in the pages of some cheap novel. God...this was truly madness.  
  
Yet...yet, it was the truth -maybe not exactly like the stuff described within these printed pages, but hideously similar. There were things, little details, he recalled now of his so-called demential experience; tiny bits of memory that would no longer be squelched or forgotten. He knew better than most the difference between a hallucination and solid reality, and what he had seen, heard, and felt had been real.  
  
Kowalski had died -he did not deny that- but he also knew that he had spoken to a live, solid being that bore that man's face and form only a short while ago...but not the same man he Kowalski had always been -a Kowalski whose skin had blanched as pale as alabaster though it had been hot with fever; a Kowalski whose eyes were the color of blood and whose dress uniform had been sodden in places by that same dark fluid; a Kowalski...whose newly vulpine smile had revealed fangs like the impossible creatures within this beaten book and yet, had tried to warn him to stay away, to get away while he had the chance.  
  
And so, this seaman was truly afraid. If he had lost his sanity, he could be healed in time...cured in a sterile white place with constantly smiling, unnaturally patient doctors and nurses -there was that- but if he was right...where did that leave him and the crew of the Seaview? What did it all mean to the other who had died -to Riley, the Captain, the others..? If Seaview was dealing with something other than phenomena of the natural world, did that mean that they were all cursed? Patterson shook his head slightly and held the now closed book tightly against his chest as though the tome had become a life-preserver. Confusion had become the order of the day...and he was no longer certain what to think.  
  
He...  
  
Patterson looked up sharply, eyes squinting slightly as his solitude was abruptly sundered as the door to the crew's quarters was all but flung open, the comparatively strong light of the dim corridor surrounding the stocky shadow-shrouded figure that appeared in the opening like an all-encompassing halo.   
Almost automatically, the startled seaman grabbed the rod-like metal body of the electronic torch to his side, wishing that a man relieved of duty could still bear arms for whatever meager comfort he might draw from them, but just as quickly stopped...and released the would-be weapon as his eyes adjusted and the dark form drew closer. "Chief..." he whispered, the relief in his voice evident for his superior to hear, as he pushed the book he had been studying aside, surreptitiously obscuring its cover with a loose fold of the blanket covering his bunk.  
  
"Patterson..." Chief Sharkey raised an eyebrow quizzically, noting the poorly concealed expression of guilt on the seaman's pale countenance and the title of the hard-covered book Patterson was obviously attempting to hide. Vampires, eh? If only Patterson realized the ironic truth... Sharkey checked himself mentally -no, if only he didn't have to tell him the truth. No choice in that now. None at all. "Patterson... Pat, I...was sent t' tell you that you're back on duty as of now -Admiral's orders."  
  
"What..?" A shadow of puzzlement darkened Patterson's brow as he studied the curiously strained visage of his chief petty officer. "But Doc said I was-"  
  
"I don't give a shit what Doc said-" Sharkey gasped slightly and caught himself even as he snapped the ugly-sounding words as Patterson regarded him in shocked silence. A minute passed -perhaps two at the most- all in a dead quietude that seemed far too complete for this giant submarine, before the tension gradually left the Chief's shoulders as he took a seat at the opposite end of the slightly rumpled bunk...and then studied his hands for no particular reason before he could will himself to meet the puzzled seaman's eyes again. "Pat... You know that I have a habit of talkin' before my brain's had the chance t' tell me t' keep my yap shut-"  
  
"It's...it's okay, Chief-"  
  
"No... No, it ain't, kid...no, it ain't," Sharkey countered as he searched his brain for the right words, his eyes narrowing at the sound of...nothing. At least, he hoped not. "Especially not now. Look, Pat, there's this possibility you were right."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"About Kowalski."  
  
Patterson shook his head slowly, uncomprehending. "I don't understand..."  
  
"There's a better n' average chance that he's alive...somewheres on this ship." Across from the grim chief petty officer, seaman Patterson's face fell almost completely blank, a waxen mask devoid of expression or comprehension as the troubled N.C.O. pressed himself to complete his confession. "Some o' the eggheads at Delta had started workin' on some real nasty stuff that went outta control almost right away -it...it doesn't kill people, Pat, it changes 'em...screws 'em up inside -mind and body -Kowalski, Riley, the Skipper, all the others maybe ...and now, Mr. Morton too. Pat, the victims -they...they need blood like-"  
  
"-vampires." The word escaped from Patterson's mouth like a sigh; a soft exhalation of an almost perverse sort of relief that he strongly doubted that the uneasy chief of the boat would understand any better than he did -which wasn't really all that well. He wasn't crazy after all. He wasn't. There was some small comfort in that thought...but the moment of relief proved transient as a new dread formed in Patterson's psyche as he met Sharkey's haunted eyes and quietly said: "They...our men...they're not where they should be, are they? I've been hearing scuttlebutt ...really weird rumors about the containment room-"  
  
"They're not where they should be."  
  
"Then where are they?"  
  
"On a ship the size of Seaview, they could be God-knows-where...and God-knows how many of 'em. We got people missing -the dead and the living. I dunno...the numbers could be as high as-" Sharkey frowned, his brow furrowing. "As high as..."  
  
"As high as what, Chief?"  
  
Francis Sharkey held up a hand, wordlessly begging for silence as his voice faltered and faded to nothing, his eyes wide as he strained against the half-light, seeking the source...of a sound. He had heard it before, this sound, or he had thought he had heard it -a low scratching...almost scraping noise like that of fingernails against something hard and smooth. He had dismissed it before as merely one of the hundred or so odd mutterings or groans uttered by the stricken submarine's damaged structure, but now... Sharkey regarded an equally uneasy Patterson. "Kid...please tell me you got a gun on you too."  
  
Patterson stood up slowly, his own eyes searching his surroundings, his fingers grasping the cold rod-like metal body of his trouble light. "You know I don't, Chief. Mr. O'Brien took it when I was relieved of-"  
  
"Shit." The expletive came from the Chief Petty Officer's mouth as a low sharp hiss. He was suddenly very afraid -more so than he had been for the longest time- and perhaps with little actual reason...but more likely than not with every reason. All at once, everything he had learned -and had struggled to deny- about the virus birthed at Station Delta, was rushing to the front of his brain, his thoughts, and though he had fought aberrations of nature and supernature several times before...if everything he had been told was true...he was no longer certain that he was in a position to do so now.  
  
Sharkey caught sight of Patterson's own anxious expression and glanced down at the now unsheathed service weapon strapped to his side -a standard-use semi-automatic handgun with a magazine containing eight armor-piercing-type caliber rounds... Was it really necessary -or more to the point: would it be enough? "Kid... I think we'd better get int' the corridor where there's more room," Sharkey half-whispered, glancing towards the partially open doorway, adding very quietly: "Move."  
  
A slow nod was Patterson's only answer as his hand closed, tighter, around the trouble light -hurting him- as his own ears confirmed what his chief petty officer had heard -was hearing even now- the sound of scratching and shuffling against hollow metal...and below that, this hiss of labored breathing that seemed to issue from nowhere and everywhere at the same time...and was obviously drawing inexorably closer.  
  
Just then, the light died.  
  
Both chief petty officer and seaman stopped as a low shudder traveled the length of the stricken vessel and sections of the lighting array in this area of the ship dimmed or failed all together, leaving the sector in a sickly sort of dull red glow and the quarters in which they still where, in almost total blackness.   
"Jesus... Jesus... Jesus..." Hands slick with sweat, Patterson frantically fumbled with the electronic torch he held, shakily pushing the switch on its side to half-power just as he and the Chief heard new sounds -the sudden loud clanking noise of metal hitting the hard deck by which they stood and the muffled thump of something solid, but definitely non-metallic following it several times over...and, again, the sound of breathing. Paterson swung the dully glowing electronic torch in the direction of the new noise. "Jesus Christ!"  
  
Rubine eyes peered out from a drawn, pallid face, reflecting the cold artificial glow -the face of a friend whose last spark of humanity had died. A slow, almost leering vulpine grin formed on Kowalski's cadaverous countenance, a gross parody of the warm smiles he had been known to have often worn as he eyed his former comrades who could still only look on in horrified wonder. "Pat..." The voice, low, came from between Kowalski's cracked lips roughly as if it pained him to speak. "...didn't know...you had company..." He uttered a low, growling chuckle. "Chief... Not happy to see me?"  
  
"Doesn't matter..." Patterson, his hand shaking, unwillingly turned the light slightly to one side as the owner of the new and yet dreadfully familiar voice was caught by its glow. Sharkey's own eyes widened all the more at the sight of the familiar strawberry-blonde hair -all matted and tangled now- and the contorted face that had once enjoyed smiling more than anyone he had chanced to meet. Stuart Riley ran his tongue languidly over the sharply defined tips of his extended secondary incisors. "More...food...all that matters." Behind him, from the shadows, two other dark forms followed -as perversely restored as he...as twisted as he -seamen whose wounds had healed as if they had never been injured at all -Clarke and Tomàs raised from the dead...and hungry. Their eyes all but shined with the sheer intensity of the need.  
  
"Stay back!" The service gun was in Sharkey's hand in a single, quick movement of which he did not know himself capable; the weapon trembling all too obviously as he trained it alternatively on either of the faces of the men whose deaths he had mourned and over whose rebirths he could not rejoice. He had always been taught that to each human, death came only once, followed by a hoped-for resurrection on some higher plane -but not like this...not like this. This was an abomination in every sense of the word regardless of the scientific babble which had been offered to explain these dreadful apparitions' collective existence. "'Ski -you know I'll use this if I have to."  
  
For a moment, there seemed to be hesitation in the reflective eyes of the macabre pack as each of them paused, studied the shaking weapon, and then regarded each other, speaking without words. "Then please..." The grossly transformed thing that Kowalski had become smiled again and roughly grabbed the stained fabric of what had been his finest dress uniform and then pulled -hard- ripping the cloth, baring his emaciated chest and the ribs that now jutted sharply against cadaverous skin as he stepped forward. "If you will...Chief... SHOOT! "  
  
The semi-dark room was momentarily lit by lightning and resounded with a mechanical crack of thunder as the Chief's service weapon discharged. Kowalski recoiled violently with the impact -blood exploding from the wound- and triumphantly laughed aloud as he righted himself almost immediately, the open wound healing before his horrified human audience's disbelieving eyes. Again, the gun discharged. Again, there was the same impossible reaction -and again, several times over...until the small steel hammer fell on an empty chamber -the weapon now as useless as a small child's toy as the grisly pack took this as their cue to step forward, moving almost leisurely to surround seaman and chief petty officer, teeth gnashing in anticipation.  
  
"No!" All at once, the darkness was brutally sundered, jets of white light blanching the artificial night-time into day, as the beam from Patterson's electronic torch -pushed up to full power and almost beyond- bounced off the bulkhead-mounted mirrors, reflecting off steel bars and glossy paint -and the walls of the crew's quarters soon resounded with the agonized screams of his and the Chief's would-be attackers. Panic had finally reminded the seaman of a belief held since ages past and of the particular potential weapon he had been holding in his hands all along -vampires hated light...all light.  
  
One after the other, searching blindly, struggling against the intolerable glow, their would-be attackers found their way to the ventilation grate through which the had originally come and disappeared into it, leaving a frightened chief and seaman alone.  
  
"Mother of God..." Sharkey's eyes, wide and widening, stared at the breach in the bulkhead, new understanding dawning. "They're in the vents. They're in the godamned vents!"  
  
Patterson, silent, could only nod.  
  
  
  
  
"-all vital and sensitive areas are to be secured, including Control, Missile, Engine, and Reactor rooms as well as primary and auxiliary cores, all medical and lab facilities, air revitalization, arms lockers, and powder lockers. The Master-at-Arms will see to the collection of conventional weaponry in exchange for medium-wattage plasma side-arms which are to be worn by all hands at all times. While it cannot be denied -and must not be denied- that our targets are fellow crewmen, we must bear in mind that because of their collective condition, they are in all ways extremely dangerous. Avoid all fleshly contact...and lethal force is to be exercised only when and only if necessary. You will be kept abreast of developments as they arise -Nelson out."  
  
Nelson stared dumbly for a long drawn-out moment at the microphone in his hand, the echoes of his own voice ringing off the bulkheads before fading and echoes of what he had been told still ringing in his mind...everything...of the names and faces of deadmen come to life. Patterson, for the most part had always seemed to be the sort of person too basically honest to be capable of willful deceit and Sharkey -he had come to know through the years that the straight-talking chief of the boat was one in whom he could trust almost anything.  
  
They had been attacked by four good crewmen who had died and yet, were not dead any longer -Kowalski, Riley, Clarke, and Tomàs...and worldly man of the twenty-first century and its sciences though he was, he believed it.   
All of it.  
  
Enough to issue plasma-charged weaponry in place of the conventional side-arms which by his own men's account bore no effect. Enough to issue an alert all the while wracking his troubled brain for ways to give his men the details to which they had always had a right and while yet avoiding the infamous "v" word...vampire...though he knew that his was an intelligent crew and that they had likely already made that little deduction on their own already...even if, like himself for too long, they did not wish to believe it. Hadn't he overhead Ensign Mendez use a word that sounded like "vampiros" in hushed conversation? And that word...penanggalan...that he had heard seaman Sung mutter... This Admiral knew a smattering of several oriental languages -and, if he remembered correctly, the penanggalan was a grotesque vampiric creature of oriental lore.  
  
But enough reverie... The fact remained was that all the orders he had just issued were defensive moves on his part and he still had no idea if they were of any real use. What next? That was the question -what next? The last census of the Seaview's crew had indicated a grimly disturbing trend -the number of the missing was increasing. Men seemed to be simply disappearing from their watches without so much as a trace -in all, forty-one. So far. And if what Harriman Nelson knew was correct, he knew where they were.  
  
Sharkey and Patterson's attackers had escaped into a ventilation shaft...and this great submersible was literally riddled with areas just like that -inspection tubes, air ducts, areas remembered only if one happened to be looking at Seaview's blueprints, and numerous other dark spaces where a nocturnal mutant creature could find refuge and -if he kept moving- hide for a long, long time without being found. For now and until a solution to this situation could be found -if it could be found- no-one was to venture into those areas for any reason. The darkness was the domain of the changed and the light remained that of his uninfected crew...the only real advantage that they had right now.  
  
He needed answers...and not of the sort that he had gotten from young Lieutenant Thibideau right now. Some of the information that the Canadian corpsman had finally imparted to him was not so much fantastic as it was ultimately useless. The disease sweeping them had a literal origin -that he now knew. Several years ago (a vague date at best), an expedition had been sent to the northern-most regions of Europe in response to bio-research charting what had seemed to have been, in the Middle Ages, a plague of vampirism to learn what had actually afflicted the people of the time.   
There had been discovered a perfectly intact mass burial site of the last known victims, hidden beneath permafrost. Given the custom and superstition of the time, each of the eleven frozen bodies lacked a head, local records indicating some kind of hush-hush decapitation, and their hearts had been removed, but there had been enough intact genetic material to prove the widely-held belief that the "vampire-plague" had, in fact, been a mass outbreak of rabies...in eight of the bodies. It was what remained in the other three corpses, in broken fragments of DNA mostly, that had intrigued the secret scientific body the most -a virus so similar at first sight to common rabies and yet not that disease at all, something that had to have ridden along with the outbreak, but had not been a part of it. Only a mere two or three complete strands of the disease had remained, but as with many viral lifeforms, that tiny sample had been sufficient to grow enough of the pathogen for testing...enough to learn of the almost mythically vampiric nature of their discovery.  
  
But not enough to discourage its discoverers from believing the pathogen might have some use.  
  
Nelson ran a hand over his grim countenance, exhaustion and sorrow tightening within his chest like a clenched fist. A great deal of information. All of it useless presently. None of it telling him what he wanted, no, needed, to know. Now. Now was the time to find out. Nelson cast a side-long glance over to where Doc and his medical team were still questioning Lieutenant Thibideau, not believing as he did presently, that the young lieutenant junior-grade had little more to tell; poring over him and poking and prodding as only doctors did, hoping to learn whether his not being afflicted by Project M.I.N.A's deadly mutant brainchild was a mere matter of luck or whether he had something entirely unique in his favor; a thing any person who had any knowledge of disease vectors might fear -whether he was a carrier...a Typhoid Mary of the modern age. No proof of that yet, but...  
  
Nelson hunched his shoulders slightly, his lips drawn into an open scowl, as he headed towards the high-security area of the Sick Bay. As he had decided, they all needed answers that they didn't have...and despite their guest's apparent, new, willingness to co-operate, to say that he completely trusted the man would have been an utter fallacy...besides which, there were questions for which Thibideau would unlikely possess any answers...questions that were themselves a personal plague.  
  
The crewman on the guard detail stepped aside at his superior's approach, allowing the Admiral to pass, very nearly as expressionless as the ceremonial guards at Buckingham Palace were said to be -which was fine with him. The less asked, the better -what he planned to do was hardly standard procedure.  
  
No matter...  
  
Nelson paused in his tracks momentarily as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the grim, grey darkness of the half-light within this room, certain that the false glow had been reduced in intensity since he had last looked in on his stricken executive officer -he wasn't entirely surprised. Doc had mentioned that Chip had begun to display photosensitivity beyond the visual -it was physical now; wheals like patches of minor sunburn would begin to form on the XO's skin were he exposed to strong light for more than a very short time and it was bound to get worse.  
  
Whatever V3 was, it was progressing faster, but to what end, he had no idea...and neither did Thibideau who had personally witnessed its insidious progression until that time he had locked himself in that vault on his ailing captain's orders.  
  
Nelson sighed aloud and pressed himself to continue forward. At Chip Morton's bedside, corpsman Taylor was readying a hypodermic needle with some kind of medication, squinting despite the glow of the penlight tacked to his collar that illuminated the immediate area in front of him as he prepared to give the restlessly sleeping man the shot. "Taylor?" The corpsman looked up in mild surprise, the hypo still in his hand, as Nelson approached the side of the long, covered security-type of medical bunk. "Tranquilizer?" Nelson asked, the query nearly a statement.  
  
"Yes, sir," Taylor responded uncertainly, casting an uneasy glance at the restless semi-conscious, bound executive officer. "On Doc's orders," he added quickly and unnecessarily. "Mr. Morton seems to throw them off quickly."  
  
"Uh...huh..." Nelson murmured more to himself than to the young medical officer who had again bent over his patient. "Corpsman..."  
  
Taylor paused and rose again, openly and increasingly puzzled. "Yes, sir?"  
  
"I want you to delay giving Mr. Morton that injection." There -it had been said. Nelson noted the open look of mute astonishment on the young corpsman's face, understanding it completely. Were their positions reversed, he would have been just as incredulous. "I want you to wake him up. Now."  
  
"Sir..?" Taylor blinked as if he could not believe what he had just heard and didn't know exactly what he was supposed to do -which was exactly the case. He didn't know what he ought to do -Doc was his immediate superior and his were the orders he was supposed to obey as did any corpsman, but the Admiral...well...the Admiral was the Admiral, only officially retired and recently granted authority given only to those rare generals that sported five stars on their collars -that was a lot of authority to this lowly lieutenant. The corpsman slowly placed the filled syringe onto the medical tray. Still...he had to try again... "Sir...are you sure? In his present condition, the XO is liable to-"  
  
"Must I explain every order that I..." Nelson grimaced slightly, willing the temper that seemed to be part and parcel of being born of Irish stock and having flaming-red hair, to remain at bay as he regarded the bewildered corpsman's face -he was just a decent man and a dedicated physician trying to do his duty while caught in an awkward spot. "Just... Taylor...just do it."  
  
Taylor's voice came out as a sigh of resignation. "Yes, sir... Aye, sir."  
  
A new hypodermic was filled with a solution that had been sitting in a medical bottle on the same tray, set aside for a potential emergency that no-one had actually expected to come, and its contents injected into Morton's veins, the corpsman dutifully checking his executive officer's reaction to the new drug before he slipped away -no doubt to inform Doc of his admiral's aberrant behavior and odd orders, Nelson decided with a sardonic half-smile.   
  
Again...no matter...   
  
The corpsman had his duty to perform -he expected no less- but by that same token, so did he...even if it was because of personal vows unwritten, but as unyielding and real as though they had been laser-etched into titanium-steel. As the chemical began to take full effect, Morton began to stir even more fitfully and then, suddenly, fell very still as his eyes gradually opened, blank and bewildered. Nelson approached tentatively. "Chip..?"  
  
The Executive Officer slowly turned his head in the direction of his admiral's voice, his expression uncertain as he seemed to struggle to focus...to remember...and then...awkwardly... "Ad...miral..?"  
  
"Yes, Chip." Nelson forced what he hoped was an encouraging smile to appear on his lips, belying the nearly horrified disbelief he actually felt. By...all that was holy...how the man had changed -and in such a short time. Chip Morton had all the appearance of a man who had been ill for a lifetime; his face painfully drawn, his eyes large, sunken and hollow, his skin the sallow hue of some ungodly sickness -nearly the look of a dead man. Morton had never been a heavy man, tending more towards a fit slimness, but in the time since he had become infected, he had become gaunt...terribly, terribly gaunt -almost appearing like the images his admiral had once seen, while reviewing old medical news' reels, of those patients who had once been condemned to gradually waste away, almost literally consumed from within by that virus which attacked the immune system of its host.  
  
If only it had been that.  
  
AIDS was no longer incurable...but this disease still was.  
  
It truly made Nelson's heart ache to see the young officer in this condition -especially when there was so little he could do about it. Nelson pulled a seat to where he could sit beside the medical bunk. "Chip..." he said carefully. "I need your help. Do you...do you think you'd be able to talk for a short while?"  
  
Morton swallowed deeply and gave a slight nod. "...try..."  
  
"Good man..." Nelson paused, steeling himself against an already unpleasant task. Chip had been his student -he cared for and respected him- and it galled him to make the man suffer any more than he already obviously was. "Chip... You were right...about Lee." Morton's gaze seemed to sharpen. "We know that now. We also know that you contracted the virus from him."  
  
Morton grimaced visibly. "...told you..."  
  
"I know," Nelson admitted ruefully, the knife of guilt twisting deep within his gut. If only he had listened... What had made that so impossible? "You did...but, Chip, I have to learn what else you know."  
  
A frown crossed Morton's pallid features, his upper lip pulling back to reveal the partially extended fangs within his mouth, before he relaxed again...a little...eyes blinking against the muted light. He studied the Admiral, searching his haggard countenance. "The...the virus works just like we suspected...learned. My...senses are...almost too sharp to stand..." He uttered a weak, shaky laugh. "I can hear your heartbeat, Admiral -did you know that? I can also hear the rush and flow of blood...through your veins. It's...like a thunder to me." A small cry escaped the Executive Officer's lips, cutting off his words, his knuckles whitening further as he grasped a part of the sheet covering him between his tightening fingers...and then...the moment passed.  
  
"I...can hear them too -all of them..." Morton seemed to puzzle for a moment. "Don't... don't know exactly where they are...but they're all over the ship -that I can tell...the reborn... But more than that...I can almost sense them...intermittently...almost hear their thoughts...like there's some kind of intricate link forming between all of us...a great colony of ants..." Morton laughed vaguely as he sank back against the damp, heavily creased pillow. "Lee too," he added suddenly. " I can feel his presense -better than all the others..."  
  
Nelson leaned a little closer. "Is he...close to us now?"  
  
"No..." For a moment, Morton's expression fell blank, his hollow, newly scarlet eyes unfocussed and staring as though he was listening to sound so subtle that no human ear could perceive them as he could. He blinked and then regarded the Admiral whose gnawing anxiety was all but a tattoo on his countenance. "He shadows you more than anyone else." Nelson reacted with troubled surprise. "He's been close several times...even though he doesn't know why...but not right now. He knows you...Admiral...but he no longer remembers you."  
  
So...that was the answer, wasn't it? The response to the question that had tasked this admiral since he had come to accept the reality of the disease's possessed victims. Lee Crane...the captain of this submarine was alive still, but now little more than a crazed beast controlled by the instinctive compulsions created by a mutating virus.  
  
There had been a small part of Nelson's mind that had clung to the notion that, above all, he might have been able to somehow get through to -and perhaps reason with- his friend if the chance were to present itself, but now...   
While hope had not disappeared entirely, it was not as great -and in that instant, Harriman Nelson came to a decision. Project M.I.N.A.'s virus didn't kill, but it carried a curse -it created killers- and the Lee Crane that he knew would find the horror of which he had become a part intolerable and unconscionable...and as Nelson considered the plasma side-arm strapped to his side -the power and the heft of it- he knew that if the only release possible from V3 was death, Lee Crane would find it at his hands and no-one else's -that much he swore.  
  
Nelson regarded his wan, stricken executive officer who seemed to have drifted among his own thoughts and exhaled heavily before rising from his seat to turn towards Sick Bay's ante-room. "I...I'll get Doc...to give you something to help you to rest."  
  
"Wait!" Though Morton's voice was little more than a hoarse whisper and despite his restraints, his hand -free enough to move- grasped Nelson by his hand with a crushing, vise-like strength, the nails drawing blood. "I...have to tell you..."  
  
"What, Chip?" Wincing despite himself, Nelson gently pried the pale hand from his own. "What do you have to tell me?"  
  
"I...don't know...how long I have...before this thing takes me...completely. You have no idea of the monstrous...thoughts...running through my brain -the things it made me say to you before...and the things it would make me do..." Morton paused, his chest heaving with ragged breathes as a shadow of something...something bestial crossed his drawn visage -but then was gone- leaving him almost as Nelson had always known him...were it not for the ghost of something...something decidedly unpleasant behind his staring eyes. "Admiral ...I'd kill you if I could -Lee would too...no choice. Admiral...promise me..."  
  
"Promise you what?"  
  
For an instant, the Executive Officer's pale countenance was so studious and utterly human that Nelson could almost fool himself into believing that the XO was merely ill with something that would go away in time -almost. "You...won't let me...you won't let me do what they've done...will you? You'll kill me first."  
  
Nelson considered the grim, desperate plea and then, reluctantly, nodded solemnly. "I promise, Chip. If it comes to that, I'll make sure of it...and it'll be quick."  
  
"Admiral?" Nelson turned to see Doc, corpsman Taylor, and Lieutenant Thibideau waiting there, Seaview's physician wearing a deeply troubled frown as he approached his superior. "Taylor -if you would give the XO his medication. Admiral -would you come this way?"  
  
Casting a last glance at the Executive Officer, Nelson followed Doc to the First-Aid station of Sick Bay. He needed no psychic powers to know that the reserved chief medical officer was angry -had he not countermanded his orders again? But he didn't regret his actions and nothing would make this admiral say that he did -he had found out what he needed to know ...what had to be found out. "Your hand, Admiral." Doc examined the superficial wounds on his superior officer's hand, a soft, beleaguered sigh escaping his lips as he took a swab and then retrieved a small bottle of some foul-smelling antiseptic. "That," Doc said, finally breaking the tense silence as he tended to the bloody scratches, "was a very dangerous thing you did ...Admiral."  
  
Nelson's haggard countenance creased with a wince of pain as the sterilizing chemical began to burn within the wounds. "It was necessary."  
  
"Necessary enough to chance contracting a virus that we have no idea of how to cure or control? Mr. Morton broke the skin of your hand, Admiral -what if he had had an open scratch on his fingers...or if he had broken free? He shrugs off the effects of the tranquilizers faster every time and he's growing stronger -we may not be able to hold him for much longer as is." Doc stepped back. "There. You're clear. Just keep the wounds dry."  
  
"It was necessary," Nelson muttered almost petulantly, flexing the fingers of the injured hand. He shot Doc a hard glance. "It's not something I would expect you to understand."  
  
"I do understand, Admiral," Doc shot back and then, his expression softening: "Look... I understand that you and the Captain are especially close...that you're particularly concerned for his well-being, but how can you help him by-"  
  
Nelson whirled around in his seat, his face suddenly burning with the hot red of anger. "I'll thank you never to question me in that regard, Doctor!" For several seconds, there was dead silence, both officers' eyes locked on each other...but then...slowly...the Admiral's shoulder's slumped as he sank further into the cushioned chair, drained in a way that he had never known. "I'm sorry, Doc... You are right -and I..." He cursed under his breath. "I am not acting professionally or rationally." Doc nodded with understanding and pity. "For all we've learned, the answers remain out of reach ...and all I have to show for all of it are nightmares."  
  
"What kind of nightmares?" Unaware until now, that their private conversation had been entertainment for an audience of one, both officers looked up in startlement and annoyance at the sound of Thibideau's voice as he approached them. "Please," he said insistently, "what kind of nightmares? It could be important!"  
  
The Admiral's eyes narrowed as he studied their presently less-than-welcome guest with open suspicion as if staring would allow him to read behind the man's pale, haunted eyes and to divine whatever he felt he was not telling them. He wasn't a suspicious man by nature -not normally at any rate- but he simply did not trust this man...even if there was no rational reason beyond needing a focus for the anger he was feeling; an anger which threatened to spill over his carefully contrived mental barriers.  
  
"All right..." Nelson hissed finally through tightened lips. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you about my nightmares. I'll tell you about things that no sane man would envision -about blood, and dismembered human remains; about a submarine turning into a charred hulk right before my eyes; about my crew tearing each other apart with their teeth and bare hands-" Thibideau backed off several steps, eyes widening with horror -and fear- as the Admiral's voice rose in volume, his ruddy face reddening all the further. "And I'll tell you about how the commanding officer of this submarine features in just about each and every one of those goddamned night terrors! So tell me, Lieutenant, did I tell you what you needed to know!"  
  
"Yes." Thibideau sighed heavily, staring into the distance at nothing at all before he again met the Admiral's own haunted eyes with a deeply sympathetic smile. "It was the same for me in that vault at Delta...and it happened to some of Delta's people -and crew members of the Voyageur. We thought that the virus had gotten to us -but it wasn't that simple." Nelson looked on in puzzlement, his ire momentarily forgotten at Thibideau's words, as the Canadian corpsman felt in the breast pocket of his borrowed officer's uniform, searching for some tobacco-inspired comfort, and uttered an unholy oath in disgust when he realized that he had smoked the last of the cigarettes only a few minutes ago. "It has to do with the presense of the virus, but it has nothing to do with actually being infected with it."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Thibideau answered with a defeated hunch of his shoulders. "Some of Delta's scientists had a theory -hard to prove as you can imagine- that this V3 enhanced the...paranormal senses in the same way that it does the ordinary ones -les yeux...I mean sight, sound, and the like...and that its victims were 'transmitting' mental imagery -literally sending their own nightmares ...especially those who already had a high 'psi-quotient' before infection. Did your captain have-"  
  
Nelson held up a single finger for silence. "What I told the Chief Medical Officer of this ship applies especially to you." The corpsman nodded, prudently chastened for the moment as the flag officer began to pace, rubbing an unshaven chin contemplatively over this bit of information. "So, the virus affects all areas of the brain and reaction...even latent ones?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
As often happened when he was presented with matters of intellectual wonder, Nelson felt himself torn between two extreme poles of thought; divided between the wonder of the knowledge-hungry scientist and the moral outrage and horror of a man who believed that the pursuit of knowledge had gone too far. The potential of Project M.I.N.A.'s creation was clear -a super human who had nothing to fear of illness and injury...who possessed mental talents that could potentially be used in espionage and, perhaps, as a weapon- but clear also, and far more immediate and real, was this new horror -the threat of madness to the uninfected...and the simple fact that the project wasn't working the way it supposedly should have. It seemed that they would all be touched by this disease one way or another...but there was still something that he had to know... "The sending -was it deliberate? An attack?"  
  
Thibideau seemed to struggle with the question for a moment before answering. "It is difficult to say -given the general psychological states of the victims- but I can tell you this much: not everyone who went mad did so because they were sick with the virus."  
  
Because of Seaview's suspicious habit of finding itself in situations that were far from normal -far more than any ship or crew in the entire Navy or ParaNavy- InterAllied high command had had the whole fleet tested (surreptitiously and under the guise of psychological tests) for psychic tendencies under the old contention that the strange attracted the strange. Nelson and Doc knew the scores because they had helped to administer the tests -and on average, the crew of the Seaview had scored very high in the area of random psychic ability; higher than average for the entire ParaNavy and regular Navy combined...and, as Nelson grimly recalled it, Crane's scores had been especially high -high enough to interest the Remote Viewing section of several Black Ops groups...high enough for Nelson to gently dissuade his captain from pursuing the matter. Black Ops held too many secrets for his taste. Crane had not argued.  
  
There was a grimly suspicious pattern here that had nothing to do with stress-induced paranoia -of that the Admiral of the Seaview was quite certain. No...simple coincidence could not have been more specific in its choice of a group on which to test the full nature of this awful man-made body-altering-mind-twisting disease. The late Captain Hudson seemed to believe such of the incidents he had witnessed -at least, that was the impression that Nelson found he had gathered of the man.   
  
What the hell had really happened at Delta? What- Nelson's head snapped upwards. "What the Devil-"  
  
Even as Nelson spoke aloud, all other heads snapped upwards as well, eyes widening with instinctive fear, as the lights in the Sick Bay and the corridor beyond flickered and then dimmed, fading to dark brown and then brightening again, but only barely and then, not nearly as steadily as emergency neons automatically snapped on, filling the area with a sanguine glow. Casting a sharp glance at the now openly troubled Thibideau, Nelson darted over to the bulkhead-mounted intercom, grabbing the wall-mike roughly. "Circuitry Room!" he barked, clicking the microphone rapidly. "Circuitry Room -report!"   
  
As the Admiral of the Seaview waited for a response that did not seem to be coming, Mathieu Thibideau slowly sank down onto a nearby chair and continued to stare around himself at his surroundings, squinting because of the poorer light. He was afraid...but nowhere nearly as frightened as he supposed he should have been -he was far too numb inside for that. Too little said and too late.  
  
Base self-preservation had finally given way to the duty to which he had once pledged himself...too late to be of much help to this crew -or himself...and in some vague way, he had expected what was happening right now...hell, he was resigned to it. But Nelson... Nelson seemed to have forgotten -as had everyone else it seemed- that the virus-altered victims of Project M.I.N.A., maddened by bloodthirst though they were, were nonetheless sentient...intelligent killing machines that could rise above their confusion and do whatever it took to facilitate the kill and ease their thirst. Strange happenings, odd silences, power failures -it was all a part of an instinctive plan.  
  
It had begun.  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. 4

9  
  
  
  
  
If it wasn't one thing, it was another -or so the saying went...and in this case, it seemed to be the truth.  
  
Seaman Brown's face was a mask of frustration and anxiety as he sprinted along the corridor that led most directly to the Primary Circuitry Room -or as close as a man could come to sprinting when the deck beneath his shod feet seemed frozen in a permanent list to one side, throwing his balance one way or another. One thing or another... Every time that he dared to think that the crew of the Seaview had seen the last of their troubles on this ill-fated cruise, something new would come up and he would almost seriously begin to wonder whether anyone had seen a black cat cross the walkway in front of Seaview's bow while she had waited within her pen at the Institute.  
  
The Circuitry Room wasn't supposed to be his watch -not for some hours yet anyway- but on Mr. O'Brien's orders, it had become his watch...at least, until he found out why the two men assigned there were not responding to the Admiral's summons. The light level within this section of the submarine was barely at sixty-percent of normal even though the auxiliary Circuitry Room had taken up as much of the slack as it was able from the damaged primary, but it shouldn't have to have been that way in the first place -not unless there was something really wrong...and in light of what he had been told, he didn't really doubt it -as much as he hoped otherwise.  
  
The weight of the plasma gun at his side was a comforting thing even if only in a small way.  
  
In some perverse sense, he almost hoped that something was wrong -almost- because if Markowitz and Svensen were goofing off in there; if he had been called to the primary Circuitry Room for no more reason than that his fellow crewmen had taken leave of their senses and were screwing around, he would personally kill the both of- "What the-" Crewman Ron Brown's thick eyebrows drew together with his puzzled frown -the door to the Circuitry Room had been left unlocked and open...and that didn't happen. Ever.   
  
If those guys were just goofing off...   
  
Crewman Brown flicked the safety catch on his plasma side-arm to the "off" position with a quick jerk of his thumb as he deftly slipped the weapon out of its holster and with his other hand, reached for the metal handle of the door. At his touch, the door swung open freely and hit the bulkhead within with a resounding bang.   
Almost immediately, the uneasy young seaman was hit by a smell -a strong acrid smell- the stench of charred plastic and wires whose source he quickly found in a series of computer relays within the internal lighting array controls that were scorched in some places -nearly blackened- melted in others; and some were sparking even now -all of this he saw in a glance ...even as he realized that the hand with which he had grasped the inner handle was sticky; stained with same dark red liquid that painted the metal handle itself...and stained the deck at his feet in a smeared trail that thickened and led his eyes past the banks of computer circuitry and up in a solid stain on the bulkhead, ending at -or was it entering- the cavernous man-sized opening of an uncovered ventilation duct.  
  
Brown peered sharply at the damaged circuitry, eyes widening with dread. Plasma fire. Only the raw, concentrated energy from a plasma gun or rifle at close range could have melted those units in that way. Admiral Nelson's lectures on the matter had been thorough and he had actually listened with more than half an ear.. But who..? No...why would Markowitz and Svensen have fired at a circuitry board? The answer was grotesquely simple -they hadn't. Obviously. They had been shooting at something else. Something that had hit so fast and so hard that they hadn't had time to call for help. Something that had taken them and- Brown swung around sharply, holding his weapon before him, startled by the half-seen ghost of a shadow at the edge of his peripheral vision -an image that stayed and, which he realized, was no mere shadow.  
  
Brown had heard the tales, the scuttlebutt that had grown more fanciful and gruesome with each telling, and he had certainly listened to what the Admiral had said over the intercom a short while ago -and he had been inclined to doubt at least some of if. But not now. And never again. The "shadow" was actually a solid and mobile thing -a being- and as the figure emerged from behind a computer console at the far end of the room, he saw a crewman with whom he had served since the day that Seaview had first put to sea and whose name had recently been added to the list of the missing crewmen -but at the same time, it was not the same seaman Butler he had known.  
  
Never had a man in his recollection appeared so much like a wild, rabid dog; covered in drying stains of sanguine red, bloody spittle dripping from an open mouth that revealed the fangs within, his ragged duty uniform still smoldering on one sleeve where the fabric had been burned and, in some places, melted -by the concentrated energies of a plasma gun at its highest setting? Yes.. it had to be that. God...it had to be that.  
  
Ice-cold fear stole over Brown's mind as his finger tightened on his high-tech weapon's trigger -and then stopped, frozen there- uncertainty suddenly pressing him to hesitate when logic demanded otherwise. This thing had been his friend, a shipmate with whom he had served well ...and he hadn't attacked. Not yet at any rate. If anything, Butler appeared more confused than mad, staring at his former comrade with wild eyes full of fear. Brown felt himself take a tentative step forward. "Chad... Do you remember me, Chad? It's me, your buddy -Ron. Maybe I can help you if you-"  
  
The moment passed as quickly as it had come. Sudden bestial rage twisted the tortured face of crewman Butler almost as soon as seaman Brown had uttered the man's given name and the thing that had been Ron Brown's shipmate launched itself at him even as he brought the plasma gun to bear and a startling-blue jet of energy hit the rampaging creature full in the chest, hurling him backwards towards a scorched computer terminal and the world exploded.  
  
Time passed...seconds and then minutes...but crewman Brown did not feel it as he lay in a world where darkness was his only companion. The next thing of which he was consciously aware was that his eyelids had opened and that he was staring into the out-of-focus, deeply concerned face of one of the members of Seaview's medical corps bending over him, shining a penlight into his eyes, as he lay flat on his back on the deck of the primary Circuitry Room, the back of his skull pulsing with pain. Brown tried to sit up, pushing himself up by the palms of his hands, but was gently and firmly restrained by the white-coated corpsman. "Take it easy, Ron. Looks like you received a nasty bump."  
  
"I...did..?" Brown said with a note of uncertainty that he didn't really understand. He winced at the stabbing pain at the back of his head -oh yes, he had indeed bumped his head all right. He remembered that much and he would remember it for some time yet.  
  
"Yeah..." The corpsman concurred. "It's lucky I was passing this way -I don't know what you were firing at or why, but you must have hit one of the boards -you're lucky...lucky that the explosion only knocked you flat. It could have been worse."  
  
"Yes..." Just then, seaman Brown pushed himself into a semi-sitting position, sudden dread pressing him to anxiously scan his surroundings despite the awful discomfort in his head. "Wait! Butler! Did I get him!"  
  
"Butler?" A frown furrowed the corpsman's brow -he had seen the bloodstains. "Ron...  
there's no-one else here. You were found alone."  
  
Crewman Brown sank back against the cold, hard deck, wondering whether it was possible to be insane and not know it.  
  
  
  
  
The dead were restless -restless and no longer willing or able to deny it.   
The harsh glow beyond their shadow-bound crawlspaces no longer held them in the thrall of fear and pain as it had -it could not. The light was weaker, much weaker than it had been in the previous hours -one of their own had seen to that- and the intensity of their collective thirst had become such that even half-blind, they would have begun to venture out anyway...as they were starting to now.  
  
To hunt...to feed.   
  
One or two at first, and then, slowly, more; clinging still to hidden places until they found their prey -or their prey found them. But it still wasn't enough. The kills were too few. For reasons their fevered brains only vaguely understood, most of the hunted were hiding behind tightly sealed hatches of steel, and few would venture beyond those blockades save for the determined and the foolish...  
  
...but Project M.I.N.A.'s viral offspring was almost as intelligent a disease as it was baffling and virulent -when human intelligence and cunning was necessary to its continuation, it allowed it and tapped into the brains of those it possessed. Little by little, the changelings shed the remnants of hesitation and pity as their natural canniness returned, developed, and diversified among them under the direction of overwhelming instinct -and suddenly, they knew what to do.  
  
  
  
  
It wasn't supposed to have happened this way.  
  
A small sigh escaped Lieutenant O'Brien's tightly pressed lips as his dark eyes scanned the handwritten report in his slightly trembling hands, taking in the information with dull half-interest. He should have been delighted -he knew that- because by and large, the reports were hopeful: Seaview, while not at her best by any a long shot, was but a few steps away from being base-minimally seaworthy -but, as he jotted his signature at the bottom of the report and handed it to the yeoman who had presented it to him, he felt a familiar shudder travel the length of his spine.  
  
His signature at the bottom of the page -it shouldn't have been there. It was Commander Morton's place to... No, it was Captain Crane's place to... The young lieutenant uttered mimed choice obscenities as he stuffed his pen back into his breast pocket, not certain at whom he was more angry -the fates...or himself.  
  
It would have been a bald-faced lie to have said that he possessed no ambitions beyond his present rank or that command -full command- held no fascination for him, but to have attained command -even this temporary one- under such grim circumstances did not sit well with him. His executive commander was desperately ill and isolated for the good of the crew, perhaps dying or worse, and his commanding officer...  
  
Having only just come to terms with the Captain's death, it was sorely difficult to accept that he was really alive after all. It was harder still to accept what the crew had been told about the virus that was threatening to sweep them in its wake...and to imagine so respected and decent a man as Lee Crane so afflicted and, perhaps, beyond all help... No, he did not want authority under such circumstances -but wanting and obeying were two separate concepts, weren't they? He didn't want the Conn, not like this, but he had it because it was his duty, and the Admiral had ordered it.  
  
It was as simple -and difficult- as that.  
  
"Sir?" Lieutenant O'Brien looked up wearily from the plotting board and found himself face to face with Chief Sharkey who carried with him a thermal mug from which issued a plume of steam and a familiar strong aroma. "Some coffee, sir?" the Chief of the Boat asked. "I thought that you might like a cup."  
  
O'Brien cracked a beleaguered half-grin and gingerly accepted the steaming mug. He had no real idea how the Chief Petty Officer had managed to get such a thing to the Control Room under their presently restricted situation -and, for the moment, he was not inclined to bother asking. Regardless of how the stimulating brew had found its way here, he needed it. "Thanks, Chief, you've been reading my mind." The Lieutenant carefully sipped the hot brew and grimaced as it passed his lips and inched its way down his throat, the steaming liquid too hot, overly brewed, and as bitter as battery acid -in other words, it was perfect. "If this doesn't keep me awake, nothing will."  
  
Sharkey nodded sympathetically -he understood. Over the years he had served in the Navy and the ParaNavy, he had been mother / elder brother / taskmaster / instructor to more men than he could count -enlisted and officers- and sometimes knew better than they when they were pushing themselves too far for too long -the young lieutenant was just such a man; bright, eager, and inching closer to collapse from exhaustion with every minute that passed...but how to mention that fact or if... "Uh...with the Lieutenant's permission..." O'Brien regarded him, questioning in his silence. "If you were so inclined, sir, the nose o' the ship has been declared secure an' from what I hear, the seats there are more comfortable than some o' the bunks on this ship..."  
  
Lieutenant O'Brien chuckled ever so slightly under his breath, understanding all the more why this crew liked Francis Sharkey so much. "Thanks, Chief, but I think I can hold out until I'm relieved of the-"  
  
"Sirs!" Both Sharkey and O'Brien started at the sound of the voice of Seaview's communications' officer who sat, no longer hunched over his radio console after so many hours of scanning, repairing, and silently cursing with few hours sleeping, but sitting bolt upright, his free hand pressed against the headset that he wore, his expression vacillating between excitement and puzzlement. Sparks bobbed his head in acknowledgment as his lieutenant and chief petty officer approached. "I'm not sure what exactly, but something's going on up on the surface!"  
  
O'Brien frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Signal's still not right, but it's a lot stronger even though we still can't transmit..." Sparks made some adjustments at his console. "But here's the kicker: it looks like several other countries sent survey ships to investigate the Antarctic 'quakes' -Russia, England, Japan, and others- and were turned away by InterAllied. Several government reps are grumbling about being kept in the dark by their own higher governments about what's going on in this area and..." Sparks paused, listening to the sometimes intermittent signal coming through his earpiece before regarding his superiors. "Some of the loudest grumbling's coming from the U.S.!" O'Brien and Sharkey started with surprise. "Seems an American sub, the S.S.N. Stingray-"  
  
O'Brien frowned in thought. "Yes... I know of it."  
  
"Aye, sir," Sparks replied. "They were sent by our east coast security patrol corps when the quakes, er, the explosions set off some long range security sensors, but they were turned away and told to steer clear of the area as well. There's apparently a lot of squawking going on right now between their corps and InterAllied. So far, InterAllied's still holding rank as a secret service organization."  
  
"So many levels of government that no-one knows what the other is doing...and sooner or later someone has to give." O'Brien shook his head slowly, embarrassed at the confession on his lips. "God as my witness, I have no idea which way I should pray for the argument to go. I just hope-"  
  
At that moment, there was a loud repetitive pounding at the Control Room's aft hatchway, interrupting Lieutenant O'Brien who glared at the sealed insensate entrance for a moment as if offended by the disruption of his oratory before he grinned almost sheepishly and crossed the distance, a troubled Chief Sharkey trailing close behind him as the Control Room crew surreptitiously cast glances their way. O'Brien paused before the imposing steel barrier. "All right -who is it!" Silence. No response. The young officer glanced uncertainly at his chief petty officer who returned the look the same way. O'Brien exhaled in frustration. "Well -sound off! Who is it!"  
  
"...Lieutenant Jr. Grade Marcello D'Angelo...sir," came the low, vaguely rough voice from behind the impassable steel barrier. There was a long pause; a strangely long pause and then: "Reporting for...duty, sir. I...was sent to relieve you of the watch."  
  
The troubled frown disappeared from Lieutenant O'Brien's brow as he nodded at the muffled sound of the familiar voice, tiredness coaxing him to dismiss the strange nebulous unease that had laid hold of him in exchange for a tentative sense of relief. Finally. He was far more tired than he cared to admit even to himself. "All right, D'Angelo, I'll-" The young lieutenant had reached for the hatch dog, about to undog it, when a rough hand laid a tight grip on his arm, insistently pulling the extended hand away from the metal wheel. "Sharkey, what the-"  
  
The scowl of profound annoyance on O'Brien's visage faded, gradually replaced by puzzlement as the Chief continued to vigorously shake his head, eyes wide with obvious frantic alarm, a finger pressed to his lips as he thrust a scrap of note paper on which a message had been hastily written into his superior officer's hand; a massage which simply read: "Lt. Jr. Gr. D'Angelo is listed as 'missing'!"  
  
O'Brien's eyes also widened with acute alarm as he silently mouthed: "Are you sure!" The Chief Petty Officer nodded apprehensively. O'Brien cleared his throat awkwardly, a thin film of sweat beading up on his brow as he searched for a voice that now seemed unwilling to heed his summons. "Ah... D'Angelo... I don't see your name on the duty roster here. You...must have made a mistake."  
  
An oppressive silence had descended upon the Control Room crew; so pervasive that even the flashing and blinking instrumentation that surrounded them seemed to have fallen still.   
  
At the hydrophone, Patterson whispered a half-remembered childhood prayer -he was afraid...and he believed that he knew why. As for the others, one or two had half-seen the Chief's note as he had scribbled it and still others remembered what their officer on deck had not -the contents of the last census of the crew and that Lt. Jr. Gr. D'Angelo was not on it -either way, everyone could almost sense a palpable wrongness to all of this as the silence stretched on for far too long...and then: "The...Admiral sent me ..." This time, D'Angelo's voice was rougher, much rougher, with the kind of edge that said the speaker was holding back a terrible anger and only barely succeeding. "Let me... Let me...in!"  
  
O'Brien swallowed deeply, his fear too close to the surface of his being for him to deny entirely. He had once considered a career in acting, but had discovered that he had simply lacked the talent for it -this was more proof of that fact. He sighed aloud. "I don't think so, D'Angelo."  
  
"Damn you! Let me in! " Crew standing by the hatch shrank back instinctively as the metal barrier all but shook with the resounding force of someone or something pounding heavily against it from the other side beyond their sight -once, and then again, and again. The sound of it reverberating off the bulkheads as fearful crewmen instinctively grabbed their side-arms, ready to fire at whomever or what ever seemed determined to enter. "I don't believe this...I don't believe this..." Patterson muttered fearfully, sweat beading up on his paling, haunted face as his grasp tightened on the plasma gun clenched in his hands. "They - they're using battering rams on the hatch!"  
  
"No..." Sharkey said through clenched teeth, eyes riveted on the threatened barrier. A sharp gasp escaped his tightened lips as a rivet popped from the rim around the hatch as the barrier shuddered under the thunderous impact of another blow. "Just their bodies." He flipped the safety catch of his plasma gun to the "off" position. "And if we can't figure out what to do soon they're gonna just walk in an' say 'How do you do?'"  
  
The repetitive pounding grew louder and louder, the hatch shaking now with each thunderous blow -and then it stopped. Just like that. Echoes faded into nothing as the Control Room crew glanced at each other and then around themselves...wondering... fearing...straining against the limits of their hearing only to find -nothing. There was a great woosh of exhaled air with their collective sigh of tentative relief. "I guess..." Sharkey said with a cautious, weak grin. "I guess they just gave up, you know?"  
  
"And none too soon, Chief," Patterson said, uneasily observing the hatchway door, its thick hinges ever so slightly bowed inwards. "Another few minutes and-"  
  
"Sh!" All eyes turned sharply in the direction of Lieutenant O'Brien as the young officer shook his head slowly, finger pressed to his lips, eyes staring upwards before he said, sotto voce: "Patterson -your trouble light." Casting a puzzled look at his superior officer, Patterson handed over the electronic torch and watched with wide, questioning eyes as the young lieutenant stealthily, almost cat-like, approached a sealed, solid metal plate covering a recently added inspection passage that led between the ceiling of the Control Room and the remote periscope housing, to some auxiliary controls on the deck above; a space less than half a meter by half a meter wide, but...  
  
Lieutenant O'Brien reached up, straining slightly, and unlatched the plate which came away easily and then reached up and hoisted himself up and peered into the passageway, the trouble light's glow lessening the darkness a bit as he awkwardly played it along the interior...a moment's hesitation...and then: "Oh...my...God!" O'Brien dropped to the deck heavily, his face ghastly pale. "You there -Jonas! McMichael! Use your plasma guns and weld this thing shut! They're in the inspection passage!"  
  
As the whine of plasma guns and the smell of melting and fusing metal filled the air, there came other sounds -the scratching of fingernails against metal, the thump and shuffle of bodies -several of them- against the solid surfaces above, around, and below...and the ragged hiss of heavy breaths being drawn -it was all around them...everywhere though unseen. Sharkey stared fearfully at Lieutenant O'Brien whose shoulders heaved with his labored breaths. "Sir... That's not gonna hold for too long, you know? They-"  
  
"I know, Chief!" O'Brien interrupted tersely, and then softer: "I know." The Lieutenant frowned, a decision forming behind his dark eyes, as he strided over to the periscope island and grabbed the microphone there. "Admiral Nelson, this is the Control Room!"  
  
The pounding started again.  
  
  
  
  
"I know, Lieutenant -we're barricaded in here too -just hold on!"  
  
Hold on, eh? A small grunt of disgust escaped Nelson's lips as he placed the wall-mounted mike in its cradle, his expression grim and drawn. How long, indeed, could they hold on now? Lieutenant O'Brien's frantic message had not been the first and it would unlikely be the last -as their guest had foretold, they were coming out in force. Reports were coming in from all over the ship -of their crazed, transformed shipmates attacking and thirsting for blood. Sometimes -for the most part and for now- the greater number of his crew remained secure...and safe. But the Admiral of the Seaview had received other reports -other pleas- that were abruptly, hauntingly, cut off in mid-sentence even as a crewman begged for help.  
  
Nelson glared anxiously at the lab door, barricaded and dogged, the dog wheel jammed by his own efforts. He could hear them out there -his maddened crewmen- shuffling and lumbering about, their ragged breaths loud to him in this relative quiet. They had ceased their attack on the barrier -for now- but they would begin again. Soon. That much he knew. It was the nature of any fleshly beast of which he knew to survive and feed -and they were hungry. No powers of divination were needed to know that. The only real question was of how long he and his uninfected crew could keep their attackers at bay -it was a question to which he had no answer.  
  
All at once, the pounding started again.  
  
"It sounds bad."  
  
Nelson regarded the Chief Medical Officer wearily. "It is, Doc. It is." Automatically, the Admiral's fingers closed around the butt of his plasma gun -would it be enough? If their crazed, sick, ravenous crew broke through the temporary and regular barriers, would these weapons be enough to hold them at bay...or kill them? These were medium-wattage plasma-arms, able to take out a rampaging African bull elephant if needs be, but could they deal with the mutated members of his crew? The grim reality of it was that he was no longer certain.  
  
Lee Crane's report of his encounter with a certainly fully transformed Captain Hudson at Station Delta had indicated that it could take repeated full-strength blasts to incapacitate or kill one so fully changed. Yet, a recent report from a crewman indicated that a single low-powered blast could drive off a victim whose change was more recent and, perhaps, less complete. Or did strength and weakness depend on the individual victim as normal capabilities did with ordinary people?  
  
He did not know.  
  
But they had to do something...and the options were few and far in between. Even were he to scuttle this vessel, there was no proof that his mutated crew would drown and die. Had not some of the missing members been in the once flooded sections of the ship only to reappear later alive and reborn? The reports said so. Tests and witnesses indicated that the reborn experienced rapid or instant cellular regeneration and Nelson found himself left with a conclusion that frightened him as much as it awed him...the side-effect of Project M.I.N.A.'s creation was a form of immortality. It's victims had no natural way to die if they could die at all.   
  
Were he to order this ship scuttled, he could not swear that the scuttling charges would work properly -could he promise that the surrounding area would not be poisoned with scattered nuclear material? And even if the charges simply exploded as they were meant to, sending the ship to the bottom, time tended to dim memory and there would no doubt one day be some determined and intrepid diver or science team who would take it into their heads to seek out the sunken, bio-contaminated remains of the dead ship S.S.R.N. Seaview only to possibly bring viral Armageddon to the world above.  
  
"We have to do something!"  
  
"And just what do you suggest, Doc?" Nelson immediately inwardly flinched, regretting his tone of voice. Sarcasm hardly fit the situation and the Chief Medical Officer had been a rock for him as well as the rest of the crew -if there was a good time to admit one's fear, this was as good a time as any. The temporary barricade of hastily plasma-welded lab furniture against the dogged steel hatch shuddered visibly in response to a powerful physical blow from without the sterile room. Whatever his stricken crew members had become, they were strong...very strong, and the barrier wouldn't hold all that much longer. "You're right. You're right, Doc -there must be some way to-"   
  
"Attack them with something that they can't dodge or ignore."  
  
A questioning silence answered corpsman Thibideau's abrupt statement. Nelson regarded him stonily. "Such as..?"  
  
Thibideau returned the icy look with a nervous one of his own, suddenly uncertain whether he dared to speak. They didn't like him -he knew that- and, in truth, he could understand why. He had not exactly been forthcoming, and in light of what they were all going through, he was their only visible, tangible thing at which they could direct their anger -his psychology professor would have been pleased at his assessment- but there was no time for petty anger ...and, for once, his audience was actually listening and waiting for him to continue. "Look, they may be maddened right now, but they are not stupid...and pain still hurts."  
  
Nelson and Doc shared a glance before the Admiral nodded almost cautiously. "Go on..."  
  
"Trés bien..." Thibideau clenched and unclenched his thin fingers, gathering his thoughts. "The victims of this plague hate light -strong light especially...and maybe even frequencies of light which we cannot see -it may be the reason that we have had no evidence of them making any attempt to use plasma weaponry even when they had the chance to do so -the light. And light is about the only weapon we know that is still effective against them. If you run the internal lighting array at full power -as strongly as the ship can take- they'll have no choice but to run back to their hiding places in the vents and passageways -the pain won't let them do anything else!"  
  
Nelson scowled inwardly; both at the nervous young corpsman and at the sounds beyond the barrier, uncertain presently at whom he was angrier. Such a plan had not failed to enter his thoughts, but he knew that repairs made in the primary Circuitry Room were tenuous at best and the auxiliary Circuitry Room had never actually been meant for handling the full load of giant Seaview's enormous power. One error...one weak relay... To do what Thibideau suggested could fry the entire system, leaving them all in the utter darkness of a submerged metal coffin as each life support system failed one by one -if their would-be attackers didn't kill them first. What was the old saying -stuck between a rock and a hard place? How appropriate...and how true. "I take it, Lieutenant, that you have some experience in this."  
  
"Yes, sir," the Canadian corpsman murmured uneasily. "Lieutenant Commander St. Baptiste was instructed to use the plan if necessary to effect his orders when some of our crew tried to escape in the Voyageur -and I don't doubt that he did it- and we did the same-" He flinched as the hatch shuddered again; this time, the seam between the hatchway door and the bulkhead widened ever so slightly. "-at Station Delta."  
  
Nelson grabbed the wall-mike, the order on his lips, before he hesitated and glanced over his shoulder at the young corpsman who stood, staring anxiously at their erstwhile shield. "Did it work?"  
  
Thibideau answered quietly and with almost no inflection. "For a time."  
  
"I see."Nelson clicked the mike once. "Auxiliary Circuitry Room -report!" There was a pause -too long- and Nelson clicked the mike again. "Auxiliary Circuitry Room-"  
  
"Auxiliary Circuitry Room. Raye reporting!"  
  
The Admiral of the Seaview allowed himself an instant of relief at the sound of the familiar voice. "Raye, is your watch secure?"  
  
"Yes, sir," came the openly anxious response, "but I don't know for how long. They keep trying to-"  
  
"Listen to me, Raye," Nelson interrupted, needfully abrupt. There was no time for niceties or long explanations. "I want you ready to channel as much current through the internal lighting array as possible -you'll be working in concert with the primary Circuitry Room- and keep it going until I say otherwise. Rig for white in all areas of the ship. Maximum load."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
A shadow of doubt darkened the Admiral's weariness-laden visage, a fleeting instant of hesitation that passed as hard resolution took its place. "Just do as you're told. We don't have much time...and on my word."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
  
  
  
The darkness was deep...and it was comforting.  
  
In the grim weak light of Seaview's corridors, those with eyes meant only for darkness could see better than any creature of the daytime hours, and could move and hunt as freely as availability of prey allowed. This was their world and they were no longer able to care that the lives they sought belonged to humans with whom they had recently served. It no longer mattered-  
  
All at once, the pounding of flesh against the stubborn cold metal walls of the great grey submersible ceased as sanguine eyes searched the artificial twilight, narrowing in response...to something. Something they instinctively didn't like. The change was so subtle at first -like the first almost invisible rays of a coming dawn- and in the instant it took to recognize what was happening, the corridors of the S.S.R.N. Seaview were blanched by the naked brilliance of a noonday sun.  
  
Stark white light bleached every dark recess, every hidden corner, and every shadow-shrouded turn in each corridor or room on each deck of the ship. The pounding had stopped, but the corridors were not silent. Where there had been darkness, there was light. Where there had been silence, there were now screams...loud, inhuman wailing as nocturnal eyes were blinded and pallid skin began to burn under the intolerable glare as all thoughts of attack and hunger shrank in the face of it and unendurable pain.  
  
What eyes could no longer see, wildly searching hands quickly found as the agonized creatures sought and found refuge in areas where the light could not touch.  
  
  
  
  
Lieutenant O'Brien closed his eyes, gently massaging their lids in bone-weariness and because, after so many hours of serving in low light and less, the new intense glow in the Control Room was uncomfortably bright. But it was a small price to pay. Messages were coming in from all over Seaview -their attackers were retreating, returning to their refuge within the ship's dark spaces...allowing the rest of them this one, perfect moment of peace.  
  
But they were far from safe. He knew that -and as he searched the haunted expressions of the Control Room crew- he realized that they knew it too. Screams had echoed throughout every corridor only minutes ago -cries of excruciating pain- and to his memory, the nature of the predator was ruled by one immovable law -that the wounded animal was often the most dangerous beast of all...and their attackers would be back.  
  
The light had given Seaview's crew some respite, but the question was: for how long?  
  
  
  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me, Lieutenant. How long have we just given ourselves?"  
  
"I don't know!" Thibideau returned Admiral Nelson's hard, steady gaze for a long, drawn-out moment, almost silently challenging the superior officer to blink and back down first, before he himself blinked and then turned his gaze aside with a weary shake of his head which had begun to hurt ever so slightly. He had always considered himself a strong-willed man -perhaps even simply bull-headed- but he had learned, and was learning still, that this American admiral had a will nearly as strong and unyielding as his late, beloved captain -perhaps...just perhaps...even stronger. He had never been able to lock horns with his late captain and win, ultimately, either...not even when Captain Hudson had ordered him to protect and save himself even though the only thing he had wanted to do at that time was to die with his crew.  
  
Thibideau's shoulders slumped slightly as he returned the Admiral's gaze which seemed not to have wavered during his moment of personal silent reverie. "I'm...I'm not sure. It is hard to tell. The weaker ones will be cowed for a longer time than those who are strong -and what they were in their humanity doesn't always tell you what they are now. I've seem the meek become rabid beasts..."  
  
The Canadian corpsman drew his fingers through the limp, stringy strands of ginger that had drifted over his sweat-dampened forehead. "Could be hours. Could be minutes. Just as they did at Delta, the reborn are going to realize that though the light is blinding to them, that they have other enhanced senses that'll guide them like cats in the dark -like sharks they need not sight to kill." Thibideau uttered a small, humorless laugh. "In time, they'll also come to know that though the light burns, it doesn't kill and that their wounds will heal -quickly. They'll emerge again...eventually...when the hunger is much too strong to resist, and they'll be in a wild state of blood-frenzy -twice as aggressive and deadly because they'll be that many times as hungry."  
  
"So..." Nelson said slowly, his voice subdued with something akin to horrified awe. "We only have that long to decide what to do...our final solution."  
  
"Oui..." Thibideau murmured, remembering similar words spoken by his own late commanding officer. "A...final solution...peut être..."  
  
"But...the hunger," Doc said, interjecting, his interest quickening despite himself like an audience watching to a horror movie, bound despite himself by the grotesquery of it. "That could be a weakness we might be able to exploit. I'm not personally aware of the situation of our repair supplies, but could we not shore up the existing barriers? I don't care for the idea myself, but would it not be possible to somehow wait them out-"  
  
"-until they starve to death, Docteur?" Thibideau muttered in poorly hidden derision. "Trust me when I tell you that the healthiest members of this crew would be dead from lack of food and water long before the reborn even began to really succumb from lack of nourishment. Their need was found to be two-fold: to ease their pain and for food -and the changed can't starve as such. The Delta scientists did some tests -if a V3 victim cannot get to food, they eventually go into a semi-aware hibernating state. I guess it protects them until-"  
  
"-until something that smells like lunch comes along..." Nelson leaned against the bulkhead for a moment, weariness threatening to overtake him. "...correct?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Nelson uttered a weak chuckle. "Dr. Ionescu was one sick bastard...and his cronies were no better."  
  
"Sick?" Thibideau murmured thoughtfully. "Yes -but when you think about it, only for opening Pandora's Box...because ultimately, they did not create the vampire virus. They may have played with it, mutated it, but the disease itself has probably existed as long as our own species -the ancient accounts and legends seem to bear that likelihood out."  
  
"Stories..." Nelson hissed, recalling his maternal grandmother's grim traditional Irish tales of ghosties, ghoulies, and other sundry bloodthirsty spirits, and yet... "Just...stories...  
  
"And legends and stories often have their basis in fact," Thibideau rejoined flatly. "Or have you not heard of the likes of real monsters like Elizabeth Bathory, Vlad Tsepes, or Jeffrey Dahmer and the fact that their bodies upon 'death' were ultimately lost or destroyed?"  
  
Nelson flinched, momentarily silent, before he returned Thibideau's challenging gaze. "I take it back -Dr. Ionescu and his ilk were not sick -they were pure evil."  
  
For this, Thibideau had no smart response. He shrugged limply. "...oui..."  
  
A heavy stillness settled upon the small group; Nelson and Thibideau slumping into waiting chairs, too tired and dejected at this point to think or trade protocol-encrouched barbs, Doc drawn aside by one of the members of the medical corps to read the results of yet another in another in a seemingly endless round of lab reports. It was as if they had come up against a huge metaphorical wall -efforts and tests had gotten the crew of the Seaview this far, but -it seemed- they could go no further.  
  
Almost automatically, Nelson felt his breast pocket and felt the hard lump of metal there, and pulled out the small circlet of gold that he knew so well. Lee Crane's signet ring was one of only several like it, given to the select members of the Secret Forces corps of which he had once been a part; a corps that was sent into impossible situations and expected to find solutions for those situations. This situation was impossible.  
  
It was as if he and his crew had gone so far that Fate forbade them to go any further. What were the choices? Scuttle the ship? No, he had already disgarded that option. Set the reactors to go to critical mass? Only if he wanted to vaporize the land mass for miles around while irradiating the rest for the next five thousand years. The modern nuclear submarine was a floating nuclear bomb held in check by a wafer-thin board of circuitry at the best of times and it was all his crew could do to keep Seaview from coming apart at the seams right now -but he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't. Perhaps even worse than that was the fact that Seaview was in a position to leave this place; limping like a crippled dog, but capable...but he didn't dare let that happen either -not with this disease aboard. That was the reality of it.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Doc?" Nelson pushed himself from the stiff seat at the Chief Medical Officer's approach, grunting at the discomfort in his equally stiffened back. "What is it?"  
  
Doc stared at the computer print-out in his hand, the ghost of a frown on his brow, as he studied its contents. "The latest batch of tests came up negative on Lt. Thibideau here. He's not a carrier. No sign of the virus in any form -dormant or otherwise. However-"  
  
Nelson's expression sharpened, thoughts of inevitable doom put aside for now -even Thibideau's own young visage darkened with uncertainty. "What is it, Doc?"  
  
An anomaly, sir -an anomaly that I've not seen before," Doc confessed a little helplessly. "We must have missed it several times it's so nearly invisible. I've got my lab corps trying to track its nature down now, but... Lieutenant-" Thibideau studied his superior officer silently, eyes wide and questioning, as Seaview's doctor approached him directly. "Are you presently under treatment -for some unusual condition?"  
  
"No."  
  
"In the recent past then? Anything at all -something kept off record?"  
  
"No...sir," Thibideau stated with a small sigh, his thin shoulders hunching slightly. "I have been healthy -especially healthy for the longest time. The last that I was truly ill, well, it's...it's been well over seven years since-"  
  
"Since what?" Nelson glanced sharply from one medical officer to the other as he unconsciously stuffed the signet ring back into his breast pocket. "Since what! So help me, Lieutenant, if this is another one of your mental exercises or games-"  
  
"I am playing no games!" Thibideau snapped aloud and then stopped, stunned by the sheer ferocity of his sudden outburst, and gradually realized that the intensity of his pent-up emotions had him standing up, his fists balled and reddening, himself on the point of literally decking the flag officer -if that was possible. From what he had heard, Admiral Nelson was a tough old bird -and looked it.  
  
The clenched fingers uncurled, slowly, as the corpsman leaned heavily against a storage locker for a moment, thinking. "We went over all this at Delta. I don't see the point..." he muttered. "Damn... Seven years, eight months, thirteen days, and-" Thibideau glanced at his watch. "-and about five hours ago, I received a death sentence from my doctor." There was a curious silence as Thibideau's startled audience waited for him to continue. "He was very matter-of-fact about it, my doctor. He came into the consultation room and said, 'I'm sorry, Lieutenant Thibideau, but you only have a short while to live.' Son of a bitch..."  
  
Doc's brow furrowed with puzzlement and concern. "The medical officer on your ship?"  
  
"No..." Thibideau murmured. "A specialist -in New Québec. I'd been ill more often than usual -too often and for too long to ignore especially as before that, I had not been one to become ill very often if at all. All it took to find the cause were some tests that took a little over an hour to complete -tests even I as a medical man cannot begin to fathom even now- and another five or so minutes of waiting, and I learned that I was dying. The docteur...he called it 'Vargis' Syndrome' and that I had -tops- eight months to live if I was very lucky."  
  
"I...know of it," Doc said gravely, searching his memory. "The disease was named in 2006 by a physician by the name of Leopold Vargis who himself died from it -it's a form of cancer that fries the nervous system. Patients...patients usually die in excruciating pain. Extremely rare...afflicts no more than one person in two million...no known cure...thus far, one hundred percent fatal." Doc shook his head slowly. "My God..."  
  
"However, Lieutenant," Nelson stated with a sardonic half-grin, not nearly as touched by the corpsman's tale, "That either means that you have suffered a terrible case of misdiagnosis -or we have been entertaining a ghost. Would you care to tell me which it is?"  
  
"Neither...sir -and the diagnosis was correct," Thibideau replied flatly. "I had had as many 'second opinions' as I have fingers and toes -I know that the diagnosis was correct."  
  
"Then -not to be too blunt..." Nelson said, studying the corpsman suspiciously. "How are you still here?"  
  
Thibideau sank down onto the creased edge of the desk by which he had stood. "Captain Hudson -he was my XO at the time- came from a family of particularly extensive means. He used his own money to effect a private exploration into alternative methods of treatment and cure -conventional methods have extended my life by, at best, two months...all in pain and delirium. I...I didn't want that. Neither did Adam. Ironically, the most promising program was government-run -still not an approved method even now- and Adam used his influence -and means- to have me enrolled in it. Adam..."  
  
Thibideau blinked at the saline welling up in his eyes, resisting the tide of grief that threatened to overwhelm the mental barriers he had constructed to remain sane and in control. There was no time to grieve -not right now. "It was a shaky proposition at best. The cure was potentially lethal -but then again, as a dying man, my choices were few. The serum contained a derivative from a plant called the 'Lucretia Lilly'."  
  
"I've heard of it. The name is a misnomer -the bloom is actually distantly related to the orchid family." Doc frowned deeply. "It's found only in the deepest areas of the Amazon Rainforest Protectorate -and from root to blossom, it's extremely toxic. Even native animal and insect life is said to instinctively avoid it."  
  
"I know," Thibideau concurred quietly. "The treatment was almost as bad as the effects of the disease itself -it nearly killed me and I was bed-ridden for some months after that, but...I was cured." The corpsman sighed heavily and dramatically threw up his hands in frustration. "But do you not see! It was over seven years ago and I went through all of this with the scientists and doctors at Delta. They even synthesized the serum, but it did not work! I have done many questionable things in my life, but why would I...how could I give you a false hope like that?"  
  
"Not...necessarily a false hope, Lieutenant," Nelson said, his pale eyes narrow as random possibilities sped past his mental sight. For the first time in too long -perhaps despite his better sense- he began to feel something other than sorrow and anxiety -hope? Was that possible? "They might have missed something considering their situation. Doc-" The Chief Medical Officer came to a cautious attention. "I want you to search the medical files for everything we have on Vargis' Syndrome and the Lucretia Lilly -especially its molecular   
make-up and whether we have the capacity to replicate its active components. Make sure you pump the Lieutenant there for everything he knows about the treatment procedure -use hypnosis if you must."  
  
"Yes, sir, but-"  
  
Nelson strided over to the barrier, almost possessed by a new energy as he began to pull and cut away the individual supports and objects from which their safety barrier had been constructed. "And have the medical corps track down that anomaly in Thibideau's blood -right down to the last enzyme and molecule. I want to know about it inside and out."  
  
"Yes, sir, but-"  
  
"And pull as many men as you need to get the medical synthesizers on-line in full." Nelson cursed aloud as he strained and finally pulled the crowbar he himself had jammed into the dog wheel free from the thick metal loop which now spun freely under his hands. He opened the steel door a crack and cautiously peered out into the brightly lit corridor, his plasma gun drawn, before he glanced back over his shoulder. "There are some notes still in my cabin that may be of some help. Carry on."  
  
With that, the Admiral of the Seaview disappeared into the corridor, leaving behind a chief medical officer who was coming to remember that when possessed by a notion -even ones that seemed to offer only the meager hope that this one did- Admiral Nelson was not one to be moved from his chosen course of action easily. Where Doc had seen cause for nothing but more doubt, Harriman Nelson had seized upon a tiny scrap of hope -he didn't have to understand to obey.  
  
Doc shook his head slightly and clapped an equally bewildered corpsman Thibideau on the shoulder. "The Admiral gave us his orders -let's get on with them, shall we?"  
  
  
  
  
Awareness came in stages.  
  
It started as a simple, tiny spark of consciousness surrounded by an endless, dark nothing and grew...little by little...gradually...until that which was his mind vaulted past the realm of dreams where twisted nightmares and images of personal horror found genesis and back into...darkness.  
  
Just more darkness.  
  
A small growl, almost a cry, escaped his lips as he attempted to move and found that what was left of his mind was ready to do so, his body -though an automatic examination by a free hand told him that each of his limbs were there and all intact- was not willing. Not willing to make the effort.  
  
Not yet.  
  
He could tell that he was lying down...somewhere...prone and horizontal on something that was both firm and soft, and creaked quietly with his slight movement. Cool, soft folds of some kinds of material bunched between his tightly curled fingers, causing the layers to pull against the fevered skin of his face -it was almost soothing. Rubine eyes opened slowly, cautiously, a whisper of instinctive fear echoing at the back of his brain over what he might see...but...as his eyes scanned the deep, he realized that there was very little to see -at least, nothing that he had to fear.  
  
The second thing that he realized was that it was dark and not merely a trick of a semi-conscious mind still partially held in the thrall of nightmarish dreams...and that he knew where he was. The blackness was no hindrance. He quickly found that he could see quite well in this artificial night. This was the place he somehow knew as his Admiral's cabin. Had he not, in another lifetime, been here...been...in many other places as well -remember, remember- as this ship's captain? Was that possible? Difficult...thoughts were growing foggy and confused...but yes, in some strange way he did remember that much...but...he could not remember how he had gotten here or why... Just then, a surge of unpleasant memories came -of blinding white light, of...of excruciating pain, and of burning! Burning!  
  
He sat up sharply, compelled by the memory of the light scalding his flesh like boiling water or acid, the skin puckering and blistering under the seemingly inescapable glare...and then it was gone; the memory reduced to weak imagery of a half-recollected nightmare...something like relief replacing the fear. As he cautiously moved a little further, the mattress of the bunk beneath his body groaned in loud protest, the thin sheet and blanket in which he had cocooned himself falling away to land on either the mattress itself or on the deck in loose heaps.  
  
How did he get here? Didn't know. Didn't... Again came the bits and pieces of memory; images of bright light and pain...and something else. A need. A need that had nothing to do with thirsting or feeding, and everything to do with escaping that damning glare, and finding somewhere...some...place that was...safe?  
  
Yes...a safe place.  
  
A place that was safe from the light.   
  
As curiosity overcame instinctive caution, nocturnal eyes quickly scanned his surroundings, missing nothing. The Admiral's cabin...yes...but different. It was...a wreck? One of the Admiral's best dress uniforms had been stuffed tightly against the small space between the door and the deck...the desk lamp smashed...the wall light also...and the ventilation grate had been torn or pushed from the bulkhead, the opening covered now with a bath towel, its topmost corners pinned to the wall by simple thumb tacks that had somehow been literally driven into the hard material of the bulkhead by a frantically hammering fist. His own? He didn't remember it...but he didn't doubt it either.   
  
Escape...anything to escape that damning light. Safe... He felt safe here...as he somehow knew he had many times before.  
  
Safe...  
  
A small, burring near-growl escaped his tightly pressed lips as an intolerable, torturous itch erupted on the exposed skin of his hands and face where the light had burned him the worst. Instinctively, he lapped at the ugly welts on the backs of his hands, the new roughness of his tongue easing the discomfort somewhat, before he examined the wounds more closely and began to scratch at the damaged epidermal layer, revealing the new, healthy and fully restored skin beneath the dead sheath above it, the dry, puckered skin on his cheeks also falling away in flakes at a mere touch.  
  
In this quietude -even his confounded state of mind- Lee Crane found himself studying the new discovery with fascination that bordered on awe -he might even have pored over the wonder of it a little longer except that, like an automatic alarm, his senses had suddenly pricked up, keyed and sharp -danger!  
  
Danger was coming his way -and though he did not know why, despite the thirst which reared up within him again because of the nourishment his body had used to effect his personal miracle and because he needed more blood therefore, despite the fact that the hunger usually, eventually, emboldened him as nothing else could, he remained still, fearing this approaching danger as he had not before and as he did no other.  
  
This place was no longer safe.  
  
  
  
  
Somewhere between Sick Bay and his cabin, Harriman Nelson had gone from striding to jogging to all-out running, by-passing two or three work details who labored in the uncomfortable glare with obvious unease, running and ignoring the whisper in his mind of what he supposed would be considered by most good sense. Perhaps what corpsman Thibideau had said was indeed true -perhaps the scientists at Delta had done all they could with their abortive attempt at a cure for Project M.I.N.A's unholy creation... but...perhaps not.  
  
It was that tiny ember of hope that burned within him now and fired him up in a way that this cruise had all but made him forget that he could burn -with the hope of defying certainly insurmountable odds as he and his crew had done before. There was a possibility that he was deluding himself, but he refused to accept that -not while there was still a chance to survive and avoid fulfilling the vow he had made in silence to one absent friend and aloud to another who barely knew him anymore. There was so little time for a miracle to come his men's way -if one existed for them at all. The number of the missing was too high to ignore, and intolerable hunger would eventually press the virus' victims to venture out of their dark hiding places to hunt...to feed.  
  
"What the Devil..?" The run became a faltering trot and then, a hesitant step as Nelson drew closer to the closed door behind which his quarters remained. Why..? Why the hesitation? He didn't really know. It was... Nelson's brow furrowed deeply as he felt yet again that strange compulsion -that overwhelming compulsion- that had made him look upon horrors he hadn't wished to see in the containment room, but this time, he didn't see horror, or empty containment chambers. It was simply a door -his door- a barrier underneath which no light could issue because someone had stuffed a cloth into the space between the door and the deck.  
  
Nelson kneeled and hesitantly touched the dark blue fabric -the cloth of one of his best dress uniforms by the look of it- before he stood up and pulled his plasma side-arm from its holster, glancing at its power meter -the core about ninety-nine percent fully charged- before he clicked off the safety switch. What had Thibideau said -that the victims of V3 were still thinking beings and able to do what it took to survive? Sentient enough, perhaps, to be able to make a safe haven -a sanctuary- when none seemed to exist?  
  
Nelson grasped the handle of the door and turned it slowly until he heard a tell-tale click and the door inched open, nudged by the toe of his shoe. It was dark within, much darker than it should have been. Even when a cabin was rigged for black, a thin line of floorboard lights against the bulkheads kept the darkest quarters at a deep, bluish twilight, but this was not the case here.  
  
As the more cautious part of Nelson's mind warned him of the dangers of his present course of action, his free hand reached inside the darkened quarters and retreated when all he felt was the shattered and torn remains of the light switch. Immediately, Nelson unlatched the trouble light hooked to his belt and directed its beam at its brightest within the black space.  
  
His quarters were in shambles.  
  
Strange shadows twisted, turned and stretched as Harriman Nelson played the beam of cold, white light along the bulkheads of his cabin, his extended hand trembling ever so slightly.  
  
Every possible source of illumination within the cabin had been destroyed -the desk lamp (only just replaced), the bulkhead-mounted light fixture...everything smashed. Furniture had been up-ended or thrown aside, it seemed, with no apparent thought or, perhaps, effort. Papers had been strewn about on the deck in no apparent order, and his bunk... The sheets had been left in rumpled heaps, discolored in places by drying stains of sanguinous brown. Someone had stayed here...perhaps slept here -and recently, but...who? The shadows revealed no-one and nothing besides a convoluted shadow of himself.  
  
Who had done this?  
  
Nelson reached for and then withdrew his hand from the communicator which hung from his desk by its cord. This unit, too, had been destroyed, its internal wiring hanging from the back of the box like multi-colored tinsel. Whoever had done this -whoever had been here- had obviously wanted neither to be discovered nor disturbed, but again who had it been?  
  
A shudder traveled down the length of Nelson's spine.   
The damage to his cabin was terrible, true, but he doubted that he had lost much. He kept few valuables with him onboard, but whoever had done this had to have been in a state of frenzy as Thibideau said such a living victim would be; little more than a maddened beast, possessed by rage and hunger. Could V3 really have done so much? Their guest seemed to think so and this admiral was inclined to agree now more than he had reluctantly before, but there was another question -why?   
  
Why this frenzy...this pointless destruction? Even in madness, there was usually a reason. There was no food here, nothing to prey upon as there had been in the animal lab as he had been told, nothing to attack... Sanctuary... A confused concept of sanctuary was evidenced here -and it was the only reason of which he could think that stayed and ultimately made sense after all. What he had initially seen as mad disarray could also be perceived as evidence of...nesting? If only he knew who it had been that-  
  
Nelson frowned, his face working with confused emotions, his pale eyes widening as they scanned the darkness, himself alerted by...nothing. And yet...something. An impulse. A feeling not unlike the sensation of the tip of a feather being lightly drawn across the skin of his face...as if something had touched him though he could see nothing there.   
A...presence.  
  
Nelson's mouth opened with sudden realization -he wasn't alone.  
  
The shadows were many and he hadn't illuminated them all.  
  
He...was...not...alone.  
  
It was as if he could feel it -sense it- an awareness of a presence nearby -a presence that he had not touched, but that had touched him. And somehow so very, very familiar...as irrational as that conclusion had to be even though he knew it to be true. Sweat began to drip down the sides of Nelson's haggard visage as he opened his mouth, ready to speak, but in some ways...afraid.  
  
"I know you're here." The Admiral's voice echoed ever so slightly off the darkened bulkheads, the only sound within the room. "Why don't you show yourself? You were the one that revealed yourself to me." Nelson's chest heaved deeply as the heart beneath his ribcage began to pound a thunderous rhythm within him -even if only to himself, he had to admit that he was indeed afraid. "Lee? It is you, isn't it?" Guided by his hand, the brightening beam of his electronic torch swept across the cabin in a slow, wide arc. "I won't hurt you -you can't be so far gone that you could believe that. Please, Lee...come out and show yourself."  
  
There was a pause, long and silent, and then, a sound like a ragged intake of breath. Immediately, Nelson swung the trouble light in the direction of that sound and as he did, there was movement among the eben recesses. All of a sudden, a dark blur of a figure darted from its hiding place, faster than Nelson could track with the light, and disappeared behind an overturned private storage cabinet.  
  
The Admiral of the Seaview could not resist the gasp of disbelief that escaped his lips for along with that shadowy blur, he had also seen a familiar sparkle of gold that he recognized so well. "So..." Nelson said with a grim satisfaction. "You are there." He trained the bright beam on the shadow-bound area where he had seen the familiar dark figure hide itself, the glare reflecting off the metal of the chest and the dull luster of the paint behind it.  
  
There was a shifting in the shadows and a soft animal-like whimper issued from that small refuge from the glare of Nelson's flashlight; a muffled cry of pain. Nelson lifted the angle of the bright beam slightly. "This hurts you," he said, a twinge of guilt twisting deep within him. "I wish I didn't have to...I'm sorry. If only you could understand that I only want to help you."  
  
"Liar..."  
  
Nelson started so violently that he almost dropped both his plasma gun and the electronic torch to the littered deck at his feet, only barely recovering from the instant of utter disbelief just in time. Despite all he knew and had been told, some part of him had never expected to hear that voice again. It was rough, hoarse, a ragged shadow of what he remembered, but the voice of Lee Crane nonetheless. Oh God...it was his voice!  
  
Nelson swallowed deeply, his tongue seeming to forget its purpose for a moment. "I'm telling the truth, Lee," he said carefully, uncertain whether a single word or simple gesture or even an intonation out of place might trigger an attack -or whether it made any difference at all. He had not forgotten that the Lee Crane this reborn creature was, was not the Lee Crane that he remembered. The man he remembered was one with whom he would trust his life -and, perhaps, the guardianship of his very soul- but this thing that peered at him from the shadows, rarely blinking, was unpredictable -a killer by its genetic nature- and probably very thirsty. Why he had not attacked yet, Harriman Nelson did not know.  
  
"Lee...do you know me..?" Nelson took a tentative step forward. The shadowy figure did not move. Sweat beaded up on Nelson's furrowed forehead. "I...I know that you're...  
a little 'confused' right now...but I'm here for you. If you'll let me, I can-" Nelson recoiled as the gesture was met with a harsh, lupine-like growl. "All right...I understand...  
I'll come no closer." But did his stricken friend understand? That was the question for which the Admiral of the Seaview had no solid answer -or was every word or gesture no more meaningful than a slew of obscenities uttered by a person stricken with Tourette's Syndrome? "Lee...listen to me. If there is any part of you that remembers who you are and can understand...there are notes here that'll help Doc to find a way to make you well again. You have to let me get at them. Do you understand me, Lee. It's a chance for all of us!"  
  
The moment fell into a stillness broken only by breaths being drawn as Nelson stole a glance at the weapon in his hand, the barrel pointed down, and then: "Cure..?" The Admiral started at the sound of the stricken commanding officer's voice, so still and long had the moment been. "Made...well?" There was a low, piteous sound which Nelson recognized as deep sobbing. Crying... His friend was crying. "Not...NOT...possible! CAN'T...can't be...helped!"  
  
"Yes, Lee, you can be helped!" Nelson's mind was racing. Whatever Lee Crane had become -whatever the name one dared attach to it- he was not so far gone that he couldn't hate it. There was still some part of him that could be reached...the same part that suffered in its Earth-bound Hell. That thought steadied Harriman Nelson's hand and made his choice for him. He knew what he had to do.  
  
"I'm going to help you, Lee... I know that you don't fully understand, but I will help you..." Nelson glanced furtively to his side, his eyes catching the guarded actions of his hand as, with the free finger of the hand in which he held the plasma gun, he slowly -carefully- inched the power meter up to its heaviest stun. There was no other choice and no other way of which he knew to bring in his confused friend for whatever help that could be found...if it could be found. "You have to trust me."  
  
Perhaps it was a breath drawn too sharply or perhaps the movements he had considered guarded and careful had appeared to his reborn captain's enhanced senses as labored, clumsy and far too obvious- whatever the case, even as the Admiral of the Seaview brought the charged weapon to bear, there was a loud feral roar and the screech of metal against metal as the overturned cabinet was violently thrust aside and sent skidding along the deck to hit the farmost bulkhead, as the dark blur that was Lee Crane vaulted from his small refuge and into the loosely covered ventilation shaft...and was gone.  
  
It was over in seconds.  
  
Nelson stared at the plasma gun in his hand, fist and weapon trembling visibly. "Damn! Damn! DAMN!!!" Anger reddened his temples and almost made him feel physically ill. He had been so close. So damned close! And he hadn't even gotten off a single shot! Lee had given him so many chances -he knew that now- likely resisting the instincts of the creature he had become, fighting the thirst...the hunger until it had come to the point where his only choice was to attack and feed...or run.  
  
He had run.  
  
Some small spark of the man that Lee Crane still was, had tried so hard...so hard to allow himself to be caught and contained -to be stopped...but it hadn't been enough -and it was unlikely to happen again. That much Nelson believed...and feared.  
  
Casting an uneasy glance at the open, partially obscured ventilation shaft, Nelson unlocked his wall-safe and pulled out the overstuffed file folder for which he had come, the papers within it almost spilling out at the sides. These notes had to hold the answer -they had to.  
  
The Admiral headed back towards Seaview's main medical lab.  
  
  
  
  
"Man, that's a bad one all right."  
  
Chief Sharkey hissed with grim appreciation at the sight of the ugly, bloody gash deep in the flesh of crewman Malone's hand. It had been one of those accidents that really shouldn't have happened; the sort that occurred on some job or routine duty that one had performed a thousand times before without incident, but this one time...  
  
The C.O.B. glared at the guilty piece of metal paneling, only slightly twisted from its normal position, on which seaman Malone had cut himself. There wasn't all that much that could be done about it at the moment really. His orders had been to get the primary Circuitry Room functioning at full capacity before the energies being forced through it overwhelmed both it and the secondary Circuitry Room -period- which he and his work detail had done. Cosmetic damage would have to wait...even cosmetic damage that included that short blade-like bit of metal sticking up there.  
  
Another seaman, Calloway, was struggling to help Malone, using the first-aid skills he possessed, but for each layer of gauze-like bandage that he wound around the ugly gash, warm red would well up and soak through sterile white mesh. A frown crossed the troubled C.P.O's brow -he didn't consider himself a weak-willed man or one given to queasiness at the sight of blood (of such he had seen more than his share in the course of his duties both in the Navy and the ParaNavy), but he had seen far too much of it on this cruise...too much spilled and too much drawn. Would it never end? "Calloway, get Malone to Sick Bay! That's gonna need stitches if anything ever did!" The seaman bobbed his head in agreement and helped his injured comrade to his feet and was heading towards the open door when Sharkey added: "An' keep your weapon close at hand at all times, sailor!'  
  
Calloway frowned with puzzled surprise, and despite his discomfort, Malone also paused and mirrored the look, the former of the two speaking first. "Sir?"  
  
Sharkey sighed wearily -it was "Chief" not "Sir"...ah, no matter. Let it go. "Just do it, sailor -okay?" Malone and Calloway nodded uneasily and hesitantly made their way into the corridor, finally disappearing from their deeply concerned chief's view. Sharkey turned and stared at the results of the detail's efforts, his mind on anything but that.  
  
Malone and Calloway had been of the same presumptuous bent of mind that he had seen displayed among other members of the crew; possessed of the idea that the strong glare that surrounded them, flooding all compartments, had made them immune to the danger that still existed. he wasn't that trusting of anything -there were no absolutely perfect solutions- and his words had shaken the meager comfort that Calloway and Malone had drawn in their apparent tentative belief that there were. What they couldn't know was that it had galled him to have done so...though the uneasy chief of the boat doubted that they would appreciate that at the moment were he to explain.  
  
Sometimes he wondered if encroaching middle-agedness was making him sour-spirited, jealous of the naiveté of youth. Maybe. Or maybe he just had more sense now than he had had not that long ago. Sharkey scowled at the scorched piece of metal, sticking up and stained with darkening red.  
  
Yeah...he was much more aware.  
  
The Chief slipped his plasma gun from its sheath and put the weapon on one of its heavier registers before training it on the villainous bit of metal. As his finger depressed the trigger, a thin beam of energy played on the blade-like object, searing it, and then, gradually, melting it as the force of the concentrated plasma jet worried the metal until it was a dull nub and then, a flattened lump of no danger to anyone.  
  
Much better.  
  
Sharkey rescanned his surroundings with a small grunt of satisfaction, eyes taking in the repairs and re-repairs -some, if most, only temporary- looking for anything that might have been missed. Engineering had been his specialty in the regular Navy, but upon entering service in the ParaNavy -on Seaview- he had become a novice among her men; almost as green as a new recruit in regards to the advanced technology that made this vessel run -so green that he still sometimes wondered why Admiral Nelson and Captain Crane had asked him to serve aboard her, replacing her former chief of the boat.  
  
Whatever their reasons, he had learned quickly, and -admittedly because of Admiral Nelson's personal guidance- he now knew as much as most of the crew and sometimes much more...enough to know that this grey lady was not going to die. No...she was going to get to port even if he had to somehow drag her there himself. All he and this crew needed was that one last miracle...a miracle that would make them all whole...and safe. It would happen. It had to. Sharkey consoled himself with that thought and the belief that Seaview was too stubborn a ship and her crew too stubborn a crew to just roll over and die.  
  
Die?  
  
A sudden chill traveled down the length of Sharkey's spine as he abruptly became aware of his personal situation -he was alone. Really alone. He knew of no other work details in this section of the ship and, if he knew anything else, it was that there was no wisdom in being alone when danger lurked in every shadow...even if that danger came from members of Seaview's own crew.  
  
A deep sigh heaved the Chief's shoulders as he gave the primary Circuitry Room one last look-over, shaking his head ruefully at what could not be repaired until Seaview got to port, and then stepped out of the room and carefully locked the door behind him. Mr. O'Brien would be expecting a progress report and he found himself only too glad to give him one -in person- where there were a lot of people surrounding them.  
  
It was too empty in this corridor and he, too alone. It was too quiet as well. The very sound of the heels of his shoes against the hard deck resounded against the bulkheads with each footfall. Sharkey shadowed the plasma side-arm within its sheath with a brush of his hand, reassuring himself of its presence. He had learned from practical experience that bullets meant next to nothing to Seaview's mutated crewmen -for all he knew, plasma energy might mean just as little -but what else was there? He had* to believe that there was some practical use, some protection, in having this hand-held energy cannon strapped to his side. He had to-  
  
There was no warning.  
  
All Sharkey felt was the heavy concussion of something solid against his back as he was bodily thrown to the deck before him, sprawling there, and a nettling sting across the back of his right shoulder. For a second, maybe two, the Chief lay there, gasping, before he rolled over onto his side, grasping for his weapon only to realize that for all the pain that now traveled up and down his right side that there was no sensation -and therefore no mobility- whatsoever in his right arm.  
  
The limb was there -covered in blood which dripped from the deep, ragged wound he could feel within the shoulder- but there was no feeling in the arm itself. None. Panic forcing adrenaline into his veins, the C.O.B. frantically grabbed the weapon with his left hand, rolling onto his knees in one quick motion as he did, and aimed its thick black barrel -at nothing. There was no-one there. He was alone in this intersecting corridor...but he had not imagined the attack. Imagination hadn't taken a sizable chunk of flesh out of his shoulder.  
  
The wall mike... Where was it..? Sharkey blinked rapidly, darkness reaching for him at the edges of his perceptions. He needed...he needed help. Where was... "Sharkey..."  
  
Dizzy, almost falling because of it, Sharkey nonetheless somehow found himself on his feet, the plasma gun extended in his trembling left hand, aimed at a living ghost. The Chief had heard the grim scuttlebutt; that the mutated members of Seaview's crew could move especially fast -and now, he believed it. He had been alone and now, he was pointing his hand-held energy cannon at a solid six-foot being of flesh and blood who stood, half-crouched, not seven meters away. "Mother of God..."  
  
Sharkey had seen his transformed friend before, but that had been in a weak light and he had not realized the changes that Delta's disease had wrought -he could not have. To his eyes, Kowalski's appearance was that of a man several days dead; ghastly pale skin welted by the burning rays of the light in which he stood, staring unmovingly at his chief petty officer with sanguine-colored eyes that leaked saltless red-stained tears, as bloody lips parted in a grotesque grin...and a thin red stream trickled down his chin. "Shar...key," he said, splitting the name into two even syllables as he slowly stepped forward. "Looking...for me?"  
  
"Don't!" Sharkey's finger trembled over the trigger of the weapon in his hand. Blood   
-good God- Kowalski's gaunt, twisted face was slick with it! His blood! "So help me God, I'll shoot if you come one step closer!"  
  
A low, gurgling laugh issued from the now somehow disproportionately large mouth as the former seaman stopped and stared at the weapon aimed squarely at his chest. "Oh...  
what're you gonna do...Sharkey? Kill me? You...tried it before...remember? You can't do it." Just for a moment, Kowalski stopped and frowned, seemingly puzzled and then, for a moment longer, apparently profoundly sad. "Can't...be done." The beast within overshadowed the sorrow once again as he started forward again. "You know it... I...  
know it."  
  
The Chief of the Boat felt himself take a step backward as the hellish figure continued his approach -very slowly- as if possessed crewman felt that he had all the time in the world to toy with his prey...and he was probably right. Sharkey knew that he was bleeding heavily and how long would it be before he passed from the loss? Minutes? Seconds? The shaking chief petty officer steadied his trembling hand by force of will alone, a free finger pushing the power meter upwards. "'Ski -please! Don't make me do this!  
  
The grisly, solid living dead creature continued forward.  
  
  
  
  
It was worth the try, Admiral."  
  
Harriman Nelson nodded slowly, only half-hearing Thibideau's words of sympathy, as he crushed the initial diagnostic print-out he held between the fingers of his bunching fist.   
  
It hadn't worked.  
  
As the young Canadian corpsman had warned, the serum created to cure one disease had, as it had at Station Delta, failed to cure another disease. Their disease. Project M.I.N.A's deadly brainchild. And he didn't know why. The serum for Vargis Syndrome had allowed this corpsman before him to avoid being infected by that mutating plague -he was certain of it- but the lab rabbits deliberately infected by samples of Mr. Morton's blood, and given the same serum, had not only not been cured -they had died...seconds after the inoculation, convulsing in agony, only to stop. Just...stop.  
  
No progress.  
  
No cure.  
  
Just a new poison -and a potential weapon. That wasn't what they had wanted, but that was what they had gotten. Maybe, Nelson allowed begrudgingly, that was why Thibideau hadn't mentioned the serum before -he knew it was lethal to victims of M.I.N.A.. And yet... "Are you certain that you gave my chief medical officer all the information you had on the treatment?" Nelson pressed insistently. "You didn't miss anything?"  
  
"Yes, sir -I am sure," Thibideau replied more than slightly nettled by the superior officer's continued doubt. He had answered all of their questions and had gone through their probes, their tests -WHEN would they trust him!!! "I do not know what more I can tell you!"  
  
"There may be something." Nelson and Thibideau glanced up sharply, startled by Doc's approach as he emerged from the autopsy bay, his medical smock discolored by grimly familiar red/brown stains. "I just completed the final tests on our subjects' bodies. From what we know -from what the computers tell us- the procedure and the formula are correct. That the chemical make-up of the Lucretia Lilly had to be synthesized did not make any difference."  
  
Nelson frowned. "Then what-"  
  
"If I am right -it was something we had not counted on." Doc paused for a moment to rub at the invisible gravel in his stinging eyes and then inserted a micro-disk into a nearby computer console. The screen flared and two computer-generated images formed. "These are simulations of the atomic structure of the serum for Vargis' Syndrome; one using the actual sap of the Lucretia Lilly, one using the synthetic."  
  
Nelson studied the images, brow creased with concentration, before he straightened up and regarded the physician with a puzzled hunch of his shoulders. "They're identical."  
  
Doc keyed in another command and a third image appeared beside the other two. "This is a simulation of the atomic structure of the serum's trace element as we found it in Lieutenant Thibideau's blood. "Admiral, can you tell me that it is identical to the other two?"  
  
A frown of frustration darkened Nelson's lined countenance as he leaned closer to the monitor and then was forced to stand back a ways as he fished in one of his pockets for the pair of glasses he had remembered to carry. He squinted through the slightly smudged lenses at the simulation, his frown deepening all the more. "My...God..." The admiral extended a finger toward the third image as he viewed it with a scientist's eye, studying the individual strands and circles that represented individual molecules and nuclei whose name ranged from the common and easily remembered to those for which he had to search his brain to recall...until he stopped at one particular strand and glanced sharply at the two preceding simulations to confirm the evidence of his senses. "Almost identical except for this." Nelson tapped the screen for emphasis. "Is this what I think it is -a   
sub-atomic level 'biologic'?"  
  
Doc nodded tiredly. "Yes. At optimum efficiency, Seaview's equipment has a range beyond most conventional equipment -so, I'm not surprised that the scientists at Delta didn't detect this anomaly, and considering their eventual emotional states..." Doc indicated the image. "This...is a trace element left by Vargis' Syndrome itself. It has bonded to the serum...altering it at a sub-atomic level, rendering the serum non-toxic-"  
  
"-but only to him. The Lieutenant here is the only one who has actually suffered the Syndrome previous to exposure to V3." Nelson stuffed his glasses back into his shirt pocket. The light of inspiration that had been missing from Nelson's eyes, had begun to burn again. the Admiral's expression brightened. "Yes! This could be the key! The serum was poisonous to our test animals because they had never actually suffered Vargis' Syndrome!"  
  
"Perhaps," Doc countered, "but not for certain, Admiral. An inoculation of this solution could prove just as lethal even if we were able to synthesize it."  
  
"If? What d'you mean if?"  
  
"This genetic marker is uniquely biological...a viral chimera. Compromised as we are, we barely have the capacity to create the regular serum let alone make the attempt to synthesize something this uniquely complex before..." The Chief Medical Officer let the comment hang -they all knew what he meant. From counting the hours, they had gone to counting the potential minutes and seconds before the infected men from Seaview's crew realized that they were not as badly hurt by the light as they had probably thought they were...and were thirsty enough to venture out into the glare regardless.  
  
The moment stretched on a little longer before Nelson smiled cryptically. "We are far from out of options, Doc. We have an ample supply of that biological marker right here." He turned to face Thibideau whose visage had gone pale with apprehension and then sudden comprehension. "Don't we, Lieutenant?"  
  
Thibideau stared for a moment longer and then: "Now wait a minute-"  
  
"We could extract the trace element," Doc admitted, his interest quickening. It would mean taking most of our technical staff off their present duties to modify our existing equipment...but the process is not unknown."  
  
"Just a minute-"  
  
"The only question is of how much we would require for optimum effect," Nelson added, "or any effect at all."  
  
"But, sirs-"  
  
Doc nodded enthusiastically. "I can get right on it. We don't have much time."  
  
"Messeurs! S'il vous plait!"  
  
Nelson regarded Thibideau stonily. "You have something to add, Lieutenant?"  
  
For one long moment, there was only silence as the young corpsman looked from superior officer to superior officer, and then slumped with resignation. "Non... No, sir. I have nothing to add."  
  
"Very well then," Nelson said, grimly satisfied. "Let's get on with it."  
  
  
  
  
A thin, warm stream of blood trickled from his nose, trailing over his sweat-beaded upper lip and into his mouth, unnoticed as he stared ahead, his eyes wide and fixed on a goal, a destination he could not see, but knew where it was nonetheless. It was all there was for him; the only thing he had left that kept the confused, ill-fitting pieces of his mind in a weak semblance of order as he focused on his goal and nothing else.  
  
He didn't taste the blood that was leaking into his mouth or smell the same as it oozed thick and dark from wounds that were a gory tattoo all over his body. he didn't really see the few crewmen who happened upon his path or hear their cries of horrified disbelief as they instinctively recoiled at the grisly sight of him and the burden he dragged behind him along the deck; a burden whose weight he did not feel and would not have cared had he been able. Every facet of his being was centered on the goal that stopped him from sinking into the mire of confusion that waited for him.   
  
Every thought was focused on getting to where he somehow knew he had to go and to people whose presence and location he sensed though he did not know why.  
  
All in all, it was a wise thing that no-one had tried to interfere or impede his progress. He was not certain what he would have done, but he knew that he would not have stopped...  
  
...for anyone.  
  
  
  
  
"I should like to ask you a question, Lieutenant."  
  
Nelson studied the young corpsman for a moment. In the sterile light of this medical lab, the man's fair skin had blanched to a ghastly pale hue that had little to do with the procedure under which he had just gone; the procedure which had extracted the unique element in his blood. It wasn't the procedure...no, it was fear. He was now as vulnerable to infection as any member of the crew onboard Seaview. The Admiral was not a cold man or without pity, but it had been the only way...and perhaps, a cure for all of them.   
  
Nelson drew a seat over to where Thibideau sat, waiting as was he, for the new batch of serum to complete its synthesizing process. Finally, the superior officer spoke. "You are a very cagey man, Lieutenant -a very careful man." Thibideau regarded the Admiral, uneasy and questioning, but silent. "If you think that I believe that you have told me everything, you are mistaken -however, your reasons are your own and for the present, I do not care to know them...save for one." The questioning look deepened. "You had my chief medical officer fooled and you might have continued to do so...thus, I want to know the reason you finally revealed yourself -why you broke your silence."  
  
"As I recall," Thibideau muttered, "you had a gun pointed at my face."  
  
"The real reason."  
  
Thibideau sighed deeply -the personality files on Nelson were accurate; the man was perceptive and persistent. "Do you believe in the supernatural, Admiral...in ghosts and hauntings?"  
  
Nelson winced, thoughts turning towards recollections of such events occurring on this giant submarine several times over -of the persistent spirit of an ancient ancestor, of a ghost ship and crew that had wanted the Seaview to take their place in purgatory, of a spectral pirate who had wanted to continue his days of plunder...and of Krueger. Krueger...he had almost lost Lee Crane to that thrice-damned entity of the deep. The Admiral shuddered, thoughts returning to the present, hoping that his lapse had gone unnoticed. "I...have had some experience with them."  
  
"So have I -my captain..." Thibideau looked up and Nelson was startled to see the welling of moisture in them. "My captain was my friend...and much more. I loved him and he loved me, but I think he loved honor more. If it was in my power to remain faithful to my vows to the Service, he expected me to do so no less because we were...close. My lapse was a betrayal of those vows." There was a pause. "I don't expect you to believe me, but since he died, he has visited me every night, and sometimes in the day, with the promise that until I do what I can to set things right, he will haunt me...not as a comfort, but a punishment." A weak smile touched the corpsman's lips. "He was...he is a persistent man."  
  
A faint ghost of memory passed before Nelson's mind's eye -the whisper of a nightmare and perhaps a visitation that he had forgotten. Too real. Despite himself, he believed the young officer. "I can imagine."  
  
"Admiral?" The moment of peace was over, sundered by the arrival of Seaview's chief medical officer. Nelson rose from his seat -Thibideau did the same- both regarding the physician cautiously...questioningly. In his latex-sheathed hands, Doc held a small medical containment receptacle with as much care as one handling something indescribably precious. He was. Doc turned the container around slightly so that its see-through window revealed its contents -a baby finger-thin seal vial of some translucent, pinkish fluid. "A sample from the new batch," said quietly and then added: "Cell culture tests are promising though not conclusive. If this works, we will have enough for the whole crew and then some. If not..." He grimaced. "If not, we will not have enough of the raw materials left to synthesize cough syrup...or the time."  
  
Nelson tilted his head in acknowledgment. If this serum didn't work, there would little or no time or means to seek another. "Well...let's try it then."  
  
"There is a small problem with that, Admiral."  
  
At Doc's words, Nelson felt an almost physical jab of dread deep within his stomach. "What problem?"  
  
"Sir..." Doc said, unease etched into his face, "we have no more lab subjects on which to test the new serum. The two we used were the last ones."  
  
"Why wasn't I informed of this!!!"  
  
"You were, Admiral," Doc countered very carefully. "Not an hour ago."  
  
The retort formed in Nelson's brain, but never passed beyond his lips...was never spoken aloud as he scanned the records of memory within his brain and he was suddenly forced to remember, however vaguely, that Doc had indeed informed him of few test animals remained after one of Seaview's stricken crew members had drained and mutilated the rest. He had forgotten as certainly as if he had not been told at all. It was at that moment that the Admiral of the Seaview recalled one disturbing fact -something that Lieutenant Thibideau had told them not very long ago...that not all of those who went mad on Voyageur and Delta did so because they had been infected. Was it truly possible that the mutated members of his crew were capable of transmitting their emotional states, their confusion to the uninfected? There had been reports of night terrors, temper flare-ups, and general unease...and now his own sudden forgetfulness?  
  
Nelson suppressed a shudder. "Then we have no other choice, Doc." The Chief Medical Officer nodded -he understood.  
  
It was then that the grim gathering gave a collective start and stared around themselves as they caught at the very edges of their senses, a sound -very low and indistinct, the shuffling of bodies against hollow metal, lumbering and crawling...and it was all around them. Nelson forced himself to look away from the ceiling and from what laid beyond sight. "We don't have much time."  
  
  
Dark red eyes stared through the metal netting of a nearby ventilation grate, fevered brain absorbing enough of what he had heard and seen to understand. Lee Crane drew sharpened nails down the metal plating of his hiding place, leaving gouges in the steel panels. Yes...little time.  
  
  
  
  
The doors to the high-security area of the Sick Bay were pushed open and Admiral Nelson, Doc, and a medical retinue entered, waiting only for their eyes to adjust to the weak light. At Nelson's side, Seaview's chief medical officer carried a capped hypodermic loaded with a dose of what was hopefully cure for the M.I.N.A. virus; the solution laced with a mixture of pain killers that would have proven deadly under normal circumstances -and might yet be. Nelson hesitated and then pushed himself forward -the cure...might be a killer and the only way to find out was to use a guinea pig...a human one. This was the final stage in the testing of any treatment...the one no ethical scientist or doctor enjoyed, but could not, ultimately, avoid.  
  
Nelson squinted; it was darker in this area than it had been since he had visited it last and he was filled with dismay at what that meant to the one for whom they had come.  
  
Chip Morton had been in a drugged unconsciousness when he had last looked in on him, but he was not now. Bound to his bed, the Executive Officer was wide awake, his eyes locking on the Admiral and then Doc as they approached. He glanced quickly at the corpsmen who remained in the background as they had been ordered, his body tensed and straining against his bonds to the point that the reinforced straps were beginning to cut into the pale flesh of his arms and legs, welts of purple and red appearing where the harsh material bit into the skin...and yet, he didn't seem to notice or care as his harsh stare alternately focused on his visitors. Morton's lips pulled back to reveal the partially recessed fangs piercing the thin sheath of flesh and skin, a low warning growl building deep within his throat.  
  
Nelson paused in his tracks for a moment, resolve and hope wavering at the sight of his executive officer. In this weak light, Morton appeared far less human than he had only hours before...perhaps too far gone to be helped? Normally lethal doses of more common tranquilizers had lost their effectiveness on the stricken patient not long ago -how long would it be before the XO threw off the remaining effects of what he had already been given and became strong enough to free himself from the steel-fiber restraints? No-one knew for certain, but it wouldn't be long and the Admiral of the Seaview knew that his choices were few. He had made promises -to this man...to the captain of this ship- and he intended to keep them.  
  
Doc handed over the hypodermic reluctantly, not entirely convinced by his admiral's argument that the vow he had made to Chip superseded Doc's oaths as a physician...but the Admiral could be a very convincing individual. Nelson cautiously approached the medical bunk. "Chip..."  
  
There was no recognition in the Executive Officer's staring eyes at the sound of his admiral's voice; no hint of anything that could tell anyone that he saw his superior officers as anything more than potential prey -a source of the blood he needed to cool the raging hunger that burned behind his unblinking carmine eyes. "Chip...I made you a promise -d'you remember that?" Morton continued to stare with that unnerving silence, but there was a change -a small one- as the heaving of his chest slowed ever so slightly and the expression in his eyes no longer appeared quite as empty or mindless...or was he deluding himself? Nelson wished that he knew. Was it easier to believe that his stricken XO understood what he was about to do and gave his ascent regardless of the fact that he had no longer had any say in the matter? Possibly. "Chip... We've found what might be a cure for V3 -but I won't lie to you. It could be dangerous. Deadly dangerous. I felt you should know that."  
  
Nelson sighed aloud as a tense silence was his only reply. What had he wanted? To be released of the guilt that would ensue if this trial proved as deadly for the Executive Officer as it had been for the creatures before him? Not just possibly. Definitely. The Admiral cast despairing glance at Doc who shook his head slightly in the same weary frustration. It was now or never. Permission or no, there was no choice in this-  
  
  
Just then, Nelson was forced to cry out in surprise and pain as there was a sharp ripping sound and a crushing vise of flesh and blood clamped around his wrist. Almost the instant he had looked away from the restrained patient, Morton had literally snapped one of the reinforced straps that had bound his arms and had clamped a hand around Nelson's now reddening wrist. Immediately, a security detail whom Doc had summoned - 'he' hadn't summoned them- moved forward, their plasma rifles drawn and fully charged, ready to-  
  
"NO!" Nelson's voice snapped out, sharp and loud. "Stand down -NOW!" The harshly barked order was met with mute confusion and then begrudging obedience as the puzzled security detail drew back, each man with a finger positioned precariously close to the trigger of his weapon. The Admiral steeled himself against the pain traveling up and down his imprisoned arm and wrist, and turned to face his stricken executive officer. "Chip..?"  
  
Chip Morton glared at the wrist clenched in his fist, then at the hypodermic in his admiral's free hand, and finally at Nelson's pained visage in quick succession, confusion and frustration on his drawn, pallid face as he struggled over thoughts that did not seem to want to cohere and words that would not come -at least, not easily. He glanced at the loaded hypodermic again. "It...it will...cure me..?"  
  
Nelson nodded solemnly. "Or it will cure you. Yes."  
  
The moment seemed to stretch into an eternity -no sound, no movement- and then Morton sank back against his sweat-sodden pillow. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and almost clear. "Then...get it over with...please..."  
  
Nelson gestured with a slight tilt of his head and Doc moved in with restraints of the type meant to protect a patient from hurting himself rather than those around him; not the least of which was a mouthpiece designed to prevent a patient from biting his tongue while in the throes of convulsions. Doc finished his work, hands trembling slightly despite himself, and then studied the monitors which were receiving Morton's vital signs from the remote sensor pads pasted on his brow and body before he nodded grimly to the Admiral and extended his hand for the needle.  
  
Nelson shook his head slightly. If this experiment proved fatal -if Chip was to die because of it- it would be at his hands and it would be quick. He had promised it.  
  
There was a tense, almost overwhelming silence as the needle pierced the XO's pallid skin, a tiny bubble of blood that was too pale for normalcy welling up to the surface before the contents of the hypo were emptied into his veins. During this, Morton's drawn countenance had become an expressionless mask; only the slightest flicker moving his eyelids as the needle was inserted and then again when it was removed. He made not a sound or even a muffled cry as if what remained of his tortured mind was now elsewhere; beyond the reach of what was happening to his body. Nelson stepped back, regarding the seemingly insensate officer anxiously, and turned to Doc who stood leaning over one of the monitors, his face bathed in the pale glow from its screen. "Anything?"  
  
The Chief Medical Officer shook his head slowly as he silently studied the readings on the monitor, his lips drawn tight. He remembered what Thibideau had told them and what he had learned of the effects of the sap of the Lucretia Lilly on the human body, but the Executive Officer's vital signs were no different than they had been minutes -hours- ago.   
  
"Heart rate unchanged.. .blood pressure constant.. .metabolic rate as skewed as it has been since Chip was infected -but not different... It-" Doc stopped mid-sentence, his expression suddenly uncertain and then, deeply concerned. "Check that. Heart rate increasing." Both officers immediately looked at the patient who had begun to stir, grimacing with eyes closed, as if caught in the midst of a bad dream. Doc returned his attention to the pulsing screen. "Blood pressure higher -it's now 150 over 90 and rising. Body temperature 104 Fahrenheit and rising also. I don't like this.. ." Doc glared darkly at the medical instrumentation as if he could not believe what the monitoring units were telling him; a curse on his lips as he dashed over to his patient's side, pushing past his superior officer and whipped out his stethoscope, pressing the sounding device against the Executive Officer's chest which now heaved deeply with rapid, ragged breaths. "Much too fast... much too fast... Heart rate is much too high for my liking." Doc glared sharply at the medical instrumentation, his brow furrowing all the more deeply at what they were telling him now. "Admiral, this is dangerous! Chip's vital signs are reaching the danger level -if they go any higher, he could stroke!"  
  
"I know, Doc...I know." Nelson stared at the screen in anxious silence. He was not a physician, but he knew enough about the human body and medicine in general to know that what the Chief Medical Officer said was true. He saw it in the read-out on the monitors which were recording the Executive Officer's every biological process and he saw it in each gasping breath that Chip struggled to draw. He also saw it in the livid red that now flushed Chip's once sallow skin, the sweat that dripped from his body onto the crumpled cloth, and in the way that his wasted form strained against the reinforced straps that bound him to the medical bunk. But there was no going back. He knew it -and in some way, his executive officer had known it, confounded by that damning virus though he was. There was no cure for the serum itself...and there were only two possible results of its use: life or-   
  
All at once, Nelson's grim contemplative state was sundered as the warning indicator on the monitor sounded, loud and shrill, and at that same moment, the suffering X0 strained against his bonds in one mighty convulsion, snapping each strap as though it was made of paper and tin foil, the violent motion forcing him upwards, his back arching with his muffled cry of agony, before he collapsed back against the sodden sheets.. .silent and unmoving. Doc moved Forward, his face pale with anguish. "No... Jesus, no..." Despite himself and his training, his fingers trembled as he pressed the stethoscope against Morton's still chest as he stared at the monitor screen which now registered no heartbeat at all. "Dammit, this can't-"  
  
Doc's mouth fell open -and the mouths of those within the room did the same- as their horrified silence was broken by a single electronic beep...and then another as the monitor registered one heartbeat and then another, and then others; weak at first, and then strong and steady...and then, the sound of breath being drawn as Morton's chest began to heave visibly as air was drawn into his lungs. "This isn't possible. I don't know how..."  
  
"But the serum-" Nelson prompted, not certain whether he dared to hope. "Is it-"  
  
Doc took an auto-lance From a nearby tray and pricked the unconscious executive officer's left forefinger, drawing a tiny sample of blood which he placed on a slide that he put before the lens of his electronic microscope, its capacity boosted by his own efforts, the laser-guided mechanisms focusing as he peered through the binocular eyepiece. A moment passed...and then two...before the physician looked up, his Face pale, but this time...with wonderstruck awe. "I don't know how...but the serum is attacking the V3 virus; eating it like it's candy. There's.. .there's even some evidence of an initial healing process here. My God, Admiral -it works! The serum works!"  
  
It was as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Though Nelson could not say that the burden of worry had been completely lifted, it felt, at least, a little lighter. His own hands not as steady as they should have been, he reached over the X0 and gently removed the restrictive mouthpiece just as the young commander stirred, his eyes blinking rapidly against the sting of the light that troubled his still photo-sensitive eyes though not quite as much as he stared blankly at the fixture above him for several long seconds before he looked away, visually examining his surroundings with the mounting fascination of a very small child. Just then, he turned his head and stared at the Admiral for a long moment, a weak and bewildered smile forming on his sallow face. "...Admiral..."  
  
Nelson allowed himself a shaky smile. "You did it, Chip. The serum works -you're going to be all right. How...how do you feel?"  
  
Morton swallowed deeply, his eyes glassy with exhaustion. His eyes... Nelson was taken aback -the executive officer's eyes were blue once again; as blue and bright as he had ever known them to be. "I..." Morton paused, eyes closing for a moment longer. "I feel... as if I have the worst cold on this planet.. .mouth has this weird taste in it...metallic ...thirsty too."  
  
Nelson glanced at Doc and then regarded Morton uneasily. "I ...think we can do something about that. What do you want to drink?"  
  
A feeble laugh escaped Chip Morton's cracked lips before he met his admiral's eyes again, his expression completely serious. "Orange juice...extra pulp."  
  
"Whatever you say, Chip," Nelson said with a sigh of profound relief. "Just as soon as the corpsmen here check you out, all right?" Morton nodded dumbly as the lids of his eyes became too heavy to hold open and he drifted off to sleep.  
  
As the medical detail wheeled the medical bed into an adjoining examination room, Nelson drew up to Doc's side, his expression suddenly especially serious. "So now we know the serum works -on victims in Chip's stage of infection and transformation- but as far as we know, he did riot actually ingest any blood. Will it work on the others -the ones for whom the change is more complete?"  
  
Doc stared the sterile container cradled within his latex-covered hands, the pinkish translucent serum that was their miracle cure glistening fluidly as it was caught by the light which penetrated the see-through window of the small vessel. "It should," he said finally...but the note of incertitude in his voice was something he could not mask or deny had been heard as the Admiral reacted with dull surprise -he had suspected the doubt. "But I don't know for sure. There's no way we can know until we actually use it on such a victim."  
  
"Sounds...like youse guys need...a volunteer."  
  
Nelson and Doc turned sharply, startled by the voice of one whose presence they had not been aware.. .and both stopped, frozen for a seemingly endless instant by the grisly horror of what they actually saw. Nelson spoke first, his jaw and mouth slack, his voice a weak whisper. "Jesus...Christ..." He had seen visions of horror many times before, but this was something new. Francis Sharkey, their chief petty officer, was no monster, but what he  
-what they saw- was in many ways monstrous.  
  
Sharkey was almost covered in blood -his own, someone else's- from head to toe, his uniform shirt all but hanging from his battered frame in tattered shreds only barely hiding, if at all, the bruises and claw marks beneath, his hair matted with the same drying sanguine fluid, his eyes wild and staring, within the hand of one arm that seemed to hang uselessly from one shoulder -a plasma gun...and clenched within the other fist...   
  
Sharkey cracked a disturbingly vague grin with lips that were all but swollen shut on one side at his audience who stood in stunned silence and motionlessness and then glanced back at the burden which he dragged by the collar with his sensate arm and hand, the cloth clenched between the fingers of his scraped, bruised fist...the battered, unconscious form of crewman Kowalski. Sharkey chuckled a little wildly. "Got 'im for you..." At that moment, the C.P.O's face lost all expression, his eyes rolling back in his head as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the hard surface beneath his unsteady feet, a stringless marionette.  
  
The moment of paralyzing disbelief ended abruptly as Nelson dashed forward, only barely catching the stricken chief petty officer before he hit the cold, hard tiles of the medical area's deck, his hands and uniform staining with the still-wet gore that covered the man, but it didn't matter... it did not matter. Even as the Admiral had made a move, Doc had begun to bellow for assistance, pressing the security detail that remained in stunned incredulity to give him a hand with the other of the two new patients -with Kowalski- despite their instinctive fear and reluctance as he bellowed again; this time, for any corpsman whose hands were not bound by emergency and duty already.  
  
Nelson plucked the plasma gun that had been tucked into the waistband of Sharkey's uniform trousers, his eyes widening as he realized that the power meter had been set on full, disruptive Force -because of panic perhaps- and that the energy core indicator showed that the weapon's power cell had been drained by almost 75%. Seventy-five... Nelson's train of vision went to where the insensate Kowalski was being bound to a medical bed. Was it...how could it have been possible that it had taken so much raw power to subdue the man -by the rise and fall of his chest, he could tell that Kowalski was not dead- and by Sharkey's condition, he could also tell that the first blast had not been the one to bring the crewman down. My God...the possibility was more than a possibility then. These plasma guns -these medium-range hand-held energy cannons which had proven equal to almost any task of the past- were likely no longer enough. The only more potent energy weapon on board Seaview wasn't even a weapon -they were energy welding torches meant to be used on the outside of the submersible's hull...and there were only twelve of those.  
  
"Sir. .  
  
Nelson moved aside reluctantly as a corpsman, swathed it seemed, in anti-contamination latex signaled to another member of his medical detail and lifted the unconscious C.P.O. and gingerly placed him on a gurney. Sweat beaded on Nelson's upper lip, his brow knitting, as corpsman Taylor took a sample of Sharkey's blood and placed a drop into a vial containing a sample of the reagent...no-one was surprised when the fluid turned an insidious and grimly familiar black. Taylor turned to Nelson, his expression almost apologetic. "Infection confirmed."  
  
Nelson tilted his head, his eyes downcast -there had never been any doubt. What he had seen in Chip, he had begun to see in the Chief's eyes...a bestial shadow...the first hint of a genetically-engineered madness...and despite the hope that there now was for the Chief and the others suffering only the initial stages of the disease, he could feel little more than a gnawing apprehension. Nelson grasped Sharkey by his uninjured shoulder, already feeling the beginnings of tell-tale fever. "Don't worry, Francis... Doc'll have you up and around sooner than you know."  
  
But what about the others? Nelson locked away as Sharkey was wheeled away into an adjoining treatment room, his thoughts troubled. By his estimation, the number of the newly infected was probably no more than he could count on both hands -if that- and the rest in some later stage. If the serum could not cure both those in whom the virus had radicalized as well as those in whom the disease was still in an earlier or less advanced stage, he feared that it would ultimately be of no worth at all. If history had taught him anything, it was that without a true cure, a plague could and often would spread beyond all means to contain it. Nelson caught Doc's silent gesture and approached his side.  
  
A small gasp escaped Nelson's lips unbidden. In Chip Morton, he thought he had seen all there was to see as far as the virus' external physical changes were concerned -he was wrong. So very wrong. Nelson steeled himself and drew nearer to the medical bunk, his horrified gaze never leaving the stricken crewman who had been bound with the kind of restraints used in the past only on the strongest and strangest of nature's seaborne creatures. Doc wasn't taking any chances and his decision was probably a wise one. Morton, though only on the verge of complete transformation, had been incredibly, impossibly strong -Kowalski, so much further along, was undoubtedly stronger, and if -God forbid- he should wake up too soon...  
  
Nelson glanced at Doc who was filling another hypodermic with their experimental serum; a dose they could only estimate; an educated guess at best...and then returned his attention to the insensate Kowalski. Further along -that was stating it in the mildest terms. Until now, he had not gotten a look, a good look, at one of Project M.I.N.A's completely transformed creatures, but now, especially in the slightly increased light, he saw almost more than he wished to see -a human-like beast of legend...a drinker of blood...a vampire.  
  
Morton's skin had been sallow, the paler of illness, but Kowalski's flesh had blanched to the waxen grey/white hue of a corpse that had been bled dry before burial despite the fact that it burned hot with fever and that the man himself was still alive though his chest barely rose and fell with his nearly imperceptible breaths. The seaman barely locked human or alive anymore, his weirdly dry, waxen skin drawn too tightly over bones that had come to appear too pronounced and muscles that had grown wasted and lean. And yet the strength that that wasted form belied...  
  
Doc leaned over his patient, gesturing with his eyes as he gently pulled back Kowalski's upper lip to reveal the retractable, somehow longer fangs that remained partially extended even in this death-like sleep, before he inserted the gag-like protective mouthpiece, secured it, and reached for the hypo he had placed on a medical tray. Kowalski moaned slightly as he began to stir, straining a little against the restraints, his eyes partially open, revealing further evidence of the virus mutating powers -scarlet eyes were now covered by a sanguine-colored translucent membrane like an inner eyelid, leaving the eyeballs themselves to appear as slits of venomous red.  
  
It was strange how the sight of those inhuman eyes reminded Nelson of the notion which had occurred to him only recently -that his former assumption about Captain Hudson had been wrong. There was no way that the man Lee had described could have been suffering the V3 stage of Project M.I.N.A's creation when he had attacked Seaview's shore party -V2 compounded by madness and hunger perhaps, but not V3. From what he had learned, in no way could the Captain of the Voyageur have been as transformed as this.  
  
At that moment, Doc nodded to Nelson in silence and Nelson returned the grim, wordless gesture in the same way as the physician again checked the dosage in the loaded hypo and then turned towards Kowalski whose eyes had suddenly opened, wide and sharp, daring him, it seemed, even as Doc pierced the ghastly pale skin with the sliver-thin silver needle and the insidious fluid flowed into Kowalski's veins.  
  
This time, the response was immediate.  
  
Never in his life had the Admiral of the Seaview heard a scream like that. Despite the mouthpiece, despite the fact that it should have muffled any sound a man might voice into a vague whimper, Kowalski's scream all but rang, loud and inhuman, off the very bulkheads of the room as his back arched, his body straining hard against the metal shackles, sanguine-colored tears literally streaming down the sides of his contorted face from eyes that appeared as slits of blood. It was then that Nelson felt himself do something that he thought he could never be pressed to do. He turned his face away from the sight -he could not watch this again...he could not...but he could not silence the sounds and all of a sudden, he was angry -at himself...at his moment of weakness...and forced himself to bear witness to what was his duty to witness. Just for a second...a mere second...he had forgotten himself, but even as he turned, the screams stopped.  
  
The Chief Medical Officer was bending over the limp, unconscious and somehow alive crewman, his brow lined and damp as he extracted from the seaman a single drop of blood. The Admiral stared, scarcely daring to breathe as Doc checked the sample under the electronic microscope. Nelson brushed sweat-slickened hands against the already stained fabric of his uniform trousers...waiting. "Admiral..." The physician's haggard countenance creased with a tentative smile. "It's working! He...Kowalski's going to be all right!"  
  
Now...he could breathe. Nelson exhaled deeply, the awful weight on his shoulders just a little lighter as he lifted the secure container to his tiredness-reddened eyes. How to get this serum to those that needed it -that was the question now...but a small question in the greater scheme of things. The greater part of the puzzle had been solved.  
  
They had their cure.  
  
  
10  
  
  
  
"Sir, this is highly irregular. As a flag officer-"  
  
"As a flag officer -what?"  
  
Lieutenant O'Brien regarded his admiral uneasily, his smooth brow furrowing as he realized that he had somehow ended up in a situation anyone of a lesser rank dreaded: he had to figure out how to express concern over a superior officer's chosen course of action without appearing to question his orders or his judgment -such was the nature of military protocol. It was never easy and the situation had confounded better men than he. However... "Sir... it's my duty to point out when a mission presents a clear and present danger to my superior officer." There. It had been said and the young officer awaited the proverbial leaden hammer to fall...but...   
  
A small smile animated the Admiral's ruddy visage instead. "And might I remind you that it is my duty to carry out a mission regardless of the danger." Nelson studied the young lieutenant who stood there, brow creased all the more with concentration, his expression an open window to the silent workings of his brain as he struggled to fashion a dutifully respectful rejoinder to his admiral's reply and, for now, seemed unable to make one. The Admiral's deadpanned response was a military truth, none could debate, but it was only a partial one -a serviceman pledged his life to carry out his duty, but there had to be some point to it, some chance of success...of which O'Brien was obviously profoundly uncertain. "Your concerns are duly noted, Lieutenant. Carry on." A tiny grin played at the corners of Nelson's mouth as Lieutenant O'Brien replied with a soft sigh of resignation and a vaguely forced "Aye, sir" before turning and heading back to the Control Room.  
  
Nelson watched him go. He wasn't angry -no, this admiral knew that even under such dire circumstances as the present ones, duty had its place even though one could easily be tempted to ignore it...and Lieutenant O'Brien was correct. An admiral was not generally expected to do more than issue the orders directing the actions of a detail on extra-hazardous duty, but Harriman Nelson had always been one for whom duty behind a desk became ill-fitting after only a short time. He had always considered himself a man of action...and he had promises to which only he was privy to keep.  
  
Extra-hazardous duty... There was no doubt in Harriman Nelson's mind that this mission would prove exactly that. The crew of the Seaview had been reduced -by death, injury, and illness- by about half and the greater part of that casualty list was the focus and reason for this extra-hazardous assignment. Before the victims of Delta's vampiric plague could be cured, they had to be caught and if they could not be caught... Nelson frowned as he adjusted headset of his portable communications' unit, resisting the completion of the thought. No... There was no place for doubt now. Doubt only led to failure and they could not afford that.  
  
The Admiral of the Seaview was far from alone in that opinion and was just as far from alone in this room. The Missile Room was playing host to a larger than usual assembly. Thirty-four members of Seaview's remaining healthy crew -some officers, some enlisted, volunteers greater in number than those who had been assigned- were preparing themselves for a detail that was as unique in its purpose as in its scope -to find their stricken fellow crewmen...and cure them before Delta's mutating plague went beyond all means to stop it -and there was less time than he might have imagined. That he knew. Three more names had been added to those on the list of the missing and he had no idea if they were dead or alive. Yes... There was very little time.  
  
A silent prayer escaped Nelson's lips; a private and wordless plea from the core of Nelson's being to the higher power he sometimes failed to remember, but never entirely forgot -he hoped it was enough to ensure that the hastily fashioned preparations made with trembling hands directed by ragged nerves would allow himself and his crew to capture their dangerously confused comrades. Nelson's gaze rested on the portable weapons' brackets just to his side -the high-tech rifles mounted there were the work of desperation: hastily altered medium-range plasma rifles with modified power cells that would in theory produce twice the energy and force of the originals. If the guns didn't melt down in their users' hands, explode, or blast a hole through the ship's inner hull Nelson thought wryly, but that awesome power was to be employed only if necessary and as a last line of defense. The mechanical unit mounted over each thick, black, metal muzzle was the first -a dart gun.  
  
Nelson stared at the weapons as he adjusted the form-fitting blast-proof vest he wore, his grim countenance pulled into a scowl. He supposed that he had always known, on some intellectual level, that it would come to this if a cure was found. Doctor Ionescu had named his vampiric artificially-engineered disease well -everything about it revolved around blood. The virus was carried in the blood, changing the blood, transferring mostly through the blood, gradually altering its victims gradually and then faster and more horrifically within and without so that their digestive systems could absorb all the nutrients that their changed and changing bodies needed through the ingestion of blood, making them thirst for it...hunger for it...kill for it. In theory, the perfect destroyers; killers that consumed their victims without pity or mercy. In truth, monsters that made more monsters -through the blood...and it was through that same life-giving stuff that the disease would be attacked and destroyed.  
  
The dart gun mounted on the plasma rifle appeared in position and form much like a common gun-sight -a narrow tube-like thing that could be fired by a secondary trigger and contained eight serum-loaded darts to be fired one at a time; a serum mixture so thickly laced with an even more modified narcotic brew that the medical corps swore it would render the victim too deeply unconscious to feel the pain that was the natural side-effect of the insidious elixir.. .or so they hoped. There was no real way to tell.  
  
Portable communications' units like a light-weight version of the headset any sonar operator used would be worn by each search party member, linking them in a way similar to the way that Seaview' s mutated crew members were said to be linked. Nelson adjusted his own headset again so that the needle-thin mouthpiece became positioned just before his lips, grimacing at the earpiece which continued to pinch the tender flesh of his ear lobe. These preparations had to be enough.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Malone," Nelson replied, regarding the young seaman who stood before him, his cheeks flushed, his eyes as round as saucers. No doubt he had run here from the munitions' stores; a private venture on his admiral's behest for things better not discussed over the public address system. Malone stood at almost comical attention and winced sharply as he gave the traditional salute, failing to be careful of his heavily bandaged hand as he hit the side of his head. A brief unbidden grin passed over Nelson's lips. "What news?"  
  
Malone shook his head wearily. "It's a no go, sir. Gunner's mate Bessel and I went over the munitions' stores from top to bottom -we don't have the materials to create even one plasma-burst bomb."  
  
"I see." Nelson exhaled heavily, glowering inwardly at the fact that he had even considered the use of such a weapon and the equally real fact that such a destructive force, regardless of how inherently unpredictable and unstable, would have provided an alternate solution if the search details failed in their appointed task. No matter. The point was now moot. "And the light units...the white-sound generators?"  
  
Seaman Malone's young face brightened slightly. "We had a little better luck in that area, sir. We found 15 white-sound generators still in good order and eight magnesium-flare level light generators -Bessel and Calloway are bringing them in now. The rest.. .the rest were wrecked inside by the crash and the energy pulse."  
  
Twenty-three sound and light units to drive hypersensitive plague victims out of their refuge within the dark recesses of this ship -hardly enough, but it would have to do. As their intensely acute senses had imprisoned them in the artificial deep, so would they serve as a means to drive his mutated crew out to where they could be cured -or attack and kill Nelson reminded himself with an uneasy shudder. He hadn't forgotten that possibility. "All right, Malone. Take up your watch in the Control Room."  
  
Malone regarded his clumsy heavily bandaged hand with a frustrated scowl and then nodded in resignation. "Aye aye, sir," he said turning and then...hesitating: "Sir?"  
  
"Malone?"  
  
"Good luck, sir."  
  
Nelson himself hesitated for a moment before he answered: "Thank you, Malone -we'll need all we can get." The seaman nodded wordlessly and then disappeared through the hatchway, his admiral watching him go. So much doubt in the young crewman's voice...so much doubt in the minds and hearts of his crew.. .perhaps he would have to do the hoping for them.  
  
"On my ship, we would have added 'Bon chance'."  
  
Nelson was not entirely surprised to hear corpsman Thibideau' s voice as he turned and saw the young medical officer approaching him. Like the other members of Seaview's medical corps who were serving on this detail, making last checks on the serum-loaded dart guns, corpsman Thibideau had donned a regular-issue white medical lab coat, covering the slightly ill-fitting borrowed uniform beneath. Were it not for the clusters issued by the Canadian Navy that he had affixed to the shirt collar, he could have been easily mistaken for a regular member of Seaview' s crew. Nelson completed the visual once-over with the slightest lift of his left eyebrow. "So... I see that Doc has chosen to keep you busy, Lieutenant."  
  
"Yes, sir," Thibideau responded with a nearly apologetic half-smile. "I imagine you don't care for me wearing Seaview 's uniform, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I am a sailor, sir -I earned the clusters...and I am a doctor. As I understand it... you'll soon need every medical hand you have on board." Nelson tilted his head in acknowledgment -the young corpsman, impudent as he tended to be, was quite right. One way or another, he did not doubt that Sick Bay would soon be filled to overflowing with the sick.. .and the injured. Doc and corpsmen from the greenest trainees to physicians in their own right would have their hands full and Nelson found himself grateful for the use of another set of medically trained hands. Thibideau fished a slightly creased paper out of one of the over-sized pockets of his lab coat. "Oh... and Doc thought you might want to see the latest test results on Commander Morton, Chief Sharkey, and seaman Kowalski." He proffered the sheet and the Admiral accepted it, his eyes scanning the print as his grim expression softened just a shade. "The effects of the virus are reversing. They are going to be all right."  
  
A weary, wistful sigh escaped the Admiral's slightly upturned lips. "Perhaps I was wrong indeed to have ever thought that Seaview had used up her share of miracles."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Never mind, Lieutenant," Nelson said not ungently. "Just some personal musings on my part. Carry on."  
  
Thibideau cracked a tentative grin. "Aye, sir."  
  
"Ah, Lieutenant-" Thibideau stopped in his tracks, medical clipboard under his arm, at the Admiral's abrupt utterance, his face clouded with puzzlement as Nelson approached him, his brow knitted over the notion which had chosen that moment to strike him. "Lieutenant -your captain- have you... 'seen' him lately?"  
  
"No..." Thibideau replied in a near whisper, his expression both sad and relieved. "He is with me always," he said, placing a hand against his breast, "but he is gone now. We will not meet again until such a day should come that I have no place here."  
  
Nelson studied the young officer in silence for a long moment, vague mental phantoms of those he had known who had passed on, flitting before his pale eyes as he tilted his brow in acknowledgment. "I understand... Just get back to Sick Bay -for now and the foreseeable future, you have a duty to perform."  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
Almost as soon as the corpsman had parted his company, the world weariness that had darkened Nelson's brow like a shadow disappeared, hidden by a stolid, seemingly unperturbable mental mask. He knew what he really felt -the fear of what might or could be, the anguish over those lost and the pain he would have to inflict on those that remained- but he also felt a glimmer of hope that dared to grow a little with each small triumph...if only this mission was successful. Training gave his men the way, but devotion to their fellow crewmen was the only thing that would give them courage. Nelson nodded to C.P.O. MacNeil who was acting in Sharkey's stead. MacNeil returned the gesture. "All right, men!" he snapped. "Fore and center -on the double!"  
  
At the sound of the equally uneasy C.P.O's voice, the members of the search and rescue party who had until then been going over some last details in a subdued silence looked up, their expressions a collective of scarcely hidden, anxiety -Nelson noted this with no surprise. A brave man could be afraid as well. As he had once told the then new captain of the Seaview, Lee Crane, Seaview' s men were trained to perform as commandos if needs be, specialists every one of them, but they were just human after all and seeking out their fellow crewmen had never supposed to have been one of their prescribed duties. As the Admiral stood before the men, each one of them stood at ramrod straight attention, waiting for their orders, some...some of them almost eager. They wanted to go home. They wanted their friends and crewmates to be well. It had become one desire.  
  
Patterson, one of the most mild-tempered crewmen that Nelson had ever had serve under him, had been one of the first volunteers.  
  
Doc had asked him to speak to Kowalski, to tell him everything would be all right now as only a close friend could tell him -who the chief medical officer was trying to comfort or convince no-one but the physician knew...but whatever the case, the effect had been a good one. The confused, frightened stricken crewman was now resting better and Patterson...it was as if having been permitted to visit the friend he had thought dead or beyond all reasoning and help, even for those few short minutes, had given him a sort of inner release, giving him strength and drive, giving the same to whomever he had spoken of it. Saving their fellow crewmen and themselves was no longer a desperate dream, it was a possibility...and they were not about to let that chance escape their grasps.  
  
Nelson paced a short length before his men, every eye following him. "I know that you have all been briefed -that you all know the purpose of this mission- but because of the nature of this mission, I will reiterate. Your training was never meant for the purpose of tracking down those of your own.." There was a soft, almost inaudible murmur. "But this is what you must do -without hesitation. Without uncertainty. For the sake of all of us. Anything else could not only cost an individual life, but those of the rest of the crew. You will go in teams of two and will be issued a white-sound generator and/or a portable white-light unit in order to flush 'transformed' crew from their hiding places -and you will only use your plasma weaponry if they make it impossible to do otherwise. No matter their appearances or state of mind, do not forget that they are indeed men that you know... and it is our duty to bring them home."   
  
Again there was that soft buzz of murmuring voices but this time, the whispering held some note of hope. There was doubt and fear in every man, but that was not going to stop them. A soft sigh heaved Admiral Nelson's chest. "Chief MacNeil will inform you of your team partners and assigned search areas. Calloway and Bessel will hand out arms and equipment. Carry on."  
  
And so, it was done. Harriman Nelson watched in contemplative silence, his rough, brooding visage a mask of noncommittal, as his men received their assignments, the murmur of their voices a low droning hum as his gaze traveled down to the modified plasma rifle laying in his own hands, and felt the heft of it. This was not a high-range plasma weapon, but it was close...so very close to the weapon that a nocturnal phantasm had seemed to hand him that time when his mind had been amongst the shifting netherworld of dreams and sleep. But had it been a mere dream? Or had it been more -a plea subconsciously or consciously sent by what little remained of a sane mind in a sick, tortured brain?   
  
It was possible.   
  
He had seen many strange things in the course of his career, and even stranger things recently in the brief periods when troubled sleep would envelope him...and if it was at all possible for him to have done it, the young commanding officer of this ship would have tried to contact him somehow. Perhaps he had. "All right then, Lee..." Nelson whispered so that only he could hear the words. "I'm coming. I will set you free -but not the way you asked...not unless there's no choice."  
  
From the dark recesses of a nearby ventilation shaft, sanguine-red eyes blinked in silent comprehension.  
  
  
  
  
The dead were restless.  
  
Dead... that was what those with awareness enough to think about it considered themselves. They had died...were dead still...and had awoken under a curse that only afflicted the living dead and overshadowed every thought -every passion- that they still possessed. Little else mattered. The thirst was all. It had become so great now that even their instinctive fear of the damning glare beyond the dark confines of their hiding places could not dissuade them from venturing out for much longer. One or two had tried it already. One or two had dared to cross the threshold between, artificial night and equally false day to hunt...to feed. Soon... Soon others would follow; a trickle at first and then a torrent...but not quite yet. The thirst was all, but the light was still the enemy and for the most part, they had yet to adapt to hunting for what their photosensitive eyes could not see.  
  
It was then that the lights went out.  
  
The first reaction was silence. Those who dwelt within the lightless passageways that honeycombed Seaview's mechanical being remained crouched, still, and silent as the places beyond their erstwhile sanctuaries became just as dark... just as devoid of light -but not one of them made a move as they waited, uncertainty whispering in their brains. The array that kept the great grey submersible's corridors in seemingly eternal daytime had dimmed before -that they remembered- but they also knew that the resulting gloom usually gave way to a sudden cold brilliance soon after, but this time...there was no sudden blaze of electronic glory. Instead, the darkness became complete, flickered a little, and then gave way to something like a vaguely remembered twilight. Still uncomfortable. Still bright to their hypersensitive eyes, but not intolerable. As one, they realized that they could get about in this near-night and yet...something...  
  
Even as the whisper of suspicion became a shout -even as the warning siren of their heightened senses yanked their attentions away from the lure of the darkness from without and the prey that had to exist beyond it- the comforting blackness of the hiding places in which the changed remained was brutally rent asunder by a silent explosion of cold, white electric fire.  
  
Panic replaced suspicion -instinctive, unreasoning panic that overwhelmed any sense of reason that might have remained- as the sterile brilliance flooded this section of Seaview's many passageways from one end, reaching towards the other as though the naked glare of the noonday sun itself had invaded their once dark domain. Sanctuary was sanctuary no longer and here they could not stay. Half-blind from the intolerable glare, their pallid skin scorched and welted by the same, the mutated members of Seaview's crew struggled -pushing and scrambling over each other- for whatever comfort existed in the greyness beyond.  
  
"Now!"  
  
There was no time to react. Had the reborn still possessed the presence of mind to do so, they would have pondered the reasons -confusion, pain, or the part of them that somehow remained human struggled even now not to go on like this- but whatever the reason, they had not been aware of what was waiting for them and now that they knew, there was no turning back. Neither pain nor thirst would let them. Two or three fell immediately even as they scented the human presences that their blinded eyes could not see and lunged to attack for the blood behind it, crumpling to the deck as the airborne darts imbedded themselves in their flesh, the pain that followed almost sweet in comparison to the agony with which they had lived upon rebirth.  
  
As the first of the fallen spasmed, the serum attacking the insidious disease within them, others -compelled by a need which no longer heeded instinctive caution- literally threw themselves at the source of the new pain only to be cut down...save for one. He felt a draft of cold air across his left ear as the dart flew by him, barely a hair's breadth from the tender welted flesh. Some small part of his mind begged him not to run, not to fight -there was release at the fine steely point of those tiny missiles, he somehow sensed- but he could not allow it. As certainly as instinct had driven his fellows into the metal swarm, instinct -the voice of a disease that did not want to die- had bidden him run...escape ...hunt. The bloodthirst was strong in him; a coiled viper all too eager to strike despite the tears blinding his eyes or the piercing squeal that rang in his ears from what source he knew not. He could hear nothing...see nothing, but he could scent, and feel a warmth and presence that echoed with such familiarity at the back of his fevered brain though he knew not why and had little left inside him to care. The only peace that he felt since he had been reborn was the peace that came with feeding and the only joy, the joy that came just before the kill. What eyes and ears could no longer perceive, preternatural awareness told him in full -and he sensed blood...hot and sweet with terror.  
  
And he needed it.   
  
Now.  
  
His feet had barely left the ground when he felt the pain. He didn't know where it came From or how such a little thing could throw him backwards as though he was nothing but a rag doll -it didn't really matter. The fact that remained was that the pain was a small thing; a tiny ice-cold needle that pierced his burning flesh so keenly that he felt nothing but the burning after its entry; a burning that suddenly bloomed into a nova so bright that he was blinded by the awful brilliance of it. When darkness came again, he was grateful.  
  
Cold sweat beaded upon Patterson's already damp brow, the weapon he held almost falling from the weak grip of his trembling, perspiration-slickened hands as he swallowed deeply, his widened eyes riveted on the crumpled form prone on the deck before him as its arms and legs twitched in the last spasming throes of the violent convulsions the serum-bearing dart had triggered. He had been warned that this would happen -more intensely in some than in others- and he had witnessed it in the others he had helped to capture and hopefully cure, but in some part of his mind, he had hoped not to be the one to bring this crewman in -he had even prayed for it- but the answer had been a definite no. Maybe it was better that way. As Lt. Romano, his partner, kept a nervous watch, Patterson knelt down and gently touched the pale, furrowed brow of his unconscious stricken shipmate, disbelieving still. "Riley...Stu...I'm sorry." But there was no answer -there could not be- and if apologies were to be given or accepted, it would have to be later.  
  
At that moment, Lieutenant Romano suddenly brought up the muzzle of his weapon, his stance acutely sharp, and then lowered it just as suddenly, shoulders slumping with relief, as the rhythmic sound of shod footsteps along the deck proved only to be the herald for the Admiral and his own partner rather than some blood-drinking nocturnal thing. Nelson stared at the crumpled form lying upon the deck, his brow furrowed by some emotion that his present crewmen could not determine -dismay or just as easily, relief -and looked up, studying his crewmen's faces. There was something behind that probing look -his men could sense it- but whatever it was would not be debated. Not now anyway. The instant that had seemed like an eternity passed. "Patterson!" The troubled crewman met his eyes. "Kamal!" Nelson's partner and shadow came to attention. "Get Riley to Sick Bay on the double!"  
  
"Aye, sir!"  
  
"Romano..."  
  
The young lieutenant turned away from a scene that had recently become all too familiar to him; that of healthy crewmen picking up another, carrying him with as much loathing as care, loathing not for the man which they attended, but the marks of disease that still remained -it was just human nature. He had seen a lot of that lately and understood it. What he didn't understand was the reason for the distracted expression on his admiral's rough face. "Sir?"  
  
Nelson stared into the distance for a moment longer, his expression still vague, his lips parted as if on the verge of speaking, before he blinked as though suddenly roused from a daydream and met the young officer's questioning face. "Go with them. With their hands full, they'll need someone to watch their backs. I'll continue along this corridor."  
  
Romano shook his head ever so slightly, aware even as he said the words that he was treading on dangerous ground -as he had had it drummed into his head at Annapolis, one didn't question one's superior's orders unless one was willing to face the consequences as they came. "But, sir -your orders about not searching alone-"  
  
"You needn't concern yourself about that, Lieutenant," Nelson murmured with a dismissive gesture of his hand and a glance at the rifle he bore. He proffered the hand-sized white-sound unit he carried to the increasingly flustered young officer -it was the only one between them and their light unit had failed only minutes ago. He was leaving himself especially vulnerable -he knew that, but Riley needed to be in Sick Bay and no-one would get there at all if they didn't, to put it crudely, watch their asses...any other reason was best kept to himself. He doubted that the lieutenant here would understand. Nelson forced a thin, hopefully encouraging half-smile. "Carry on, Romano...and on the double."  
  
The question failed on Romano's lips -he wasn't going to get an answer.  
  
  
  
  
"Aft compartments clear. Moving forward."  
  
"Hostile subjects contained -non-lethal force employed."  
  
"How many subjects?"  
  
"Four, sir -on their way to Sick Bay now."  
  
"Good. Keep me informed of-"  
  
Harriman Nelson's lips pressed into a thin line of doggedly grim determination, his eyes moving from side to side as he turned the corridor, his hearing tuned both to the subtle sounds at the edges of his senses and the half-heard words of the members of Seaview's search and rescue teams transmitted over the open band picked up by the portable radio headset he wore. The portable energy cannon that he bore felt good in his hands; heavy and comforting by the simple fact that it was there and by the power that its energy cells contained...not that he wanted to use it really, he countered silently, but it was assuring just the same. He had no delusions about his present situation -it was far from safe.  
  
The Admiral paused for a moment, eyes searching, before he sighed softly and continued forward. Nothing. He had entered a very dangerous mode of thought which was, quite frankly, that he was beginning to doubt his senses. This lone search was rash, irresponsible, something he would have taken any sailor to task for doing likewise, and yet, he had chosen to pursue it on the whisper of an impression, a "feeling" that he had been called...mind to mind...with words that were mute in their impossible silence though he had heard them as if they been meant only for him.   
  
That had been his impression -then.   
  
But now, the deep confusion he had seen so obviously etched into Lieutenant Romano's expressive young face darkened his own like a shadow. Had he heard a summons...or had he heard nothing but the vague whisperings of a mind weakened by too much worry and too little sleep? He had no answer. He did not want to answer. That was the truth of it.  
  
Nelson's hand went up to the earpiece of his headset, pressing it against the flesh of his ear as he listened to transmitted reports beaming across the open band. For the most part, the reports were encouraging. He would have to say that most of the stricken members of his crew had been found alive, the serum administered. They would soon be on their way to wellness and sanity...but there had been the other reports -grim tidings of several bodies found that would not be rising again until Resurrection Day and other reports of rescue team members attacked, injured and having to submit to the hellish treatment that they themselves had been obligated to administer to others -hellish because the medical corps had been wrong about one thing: the treatment was still sheer physical torture. Nelson's chest heaved visibly -more found than lost, but no sign of the one for whom he searched right now...the one whose mind he thought had touched his own if only for those few seconds.  
  
Lessons unwillingly learned rushed to the front of Harriman Nelson's brain. The vampiric virus created at Station Delta had proven an almost intelligent disease -nearly sentient in its frightening capacity to ensure its own continuation.. .for its victims did whatever they had to do for themselves -and it- to survive. If it needed fuel, they fed. If in danger, they hid. If nourishment was unavailable, they would sleep until it came...no matter how long that took. An eternity if needs be. Nelson glanced about himself with all the caution of one who had become prey and at the edges of his perceptions, he half-heard the whine of a plasma rifle being fired, wincing even though he knew it had only been set on heavy stun and that the chances of survival for victim and searcher were good...mostly.  
  
"Where..? Where are you..?" Nelson frowned all the deeper, his whispered words fading to nothing. Lee Crane had not been found, either sleeping or dead and to this admiral's knowledge, his confused friend had taken no more victims, assuming he had taken any...which Nelson did not in reality doubt, and feared. Therefore, he deduced grimly, the captain of this ship was still about somewhere, still waiting. But where? And for how long? Few knew Lee Crane as he knew him and even fewer still knew the secrets that his complete service record contained. In his right mind, Crane was a survivor with few peers; a military man whose actual training and skills were by necessity still highly classified, making him as much an enigma to his crew presently as he had been the first day he had boarded this ship. Now, he was a predator whose plague-enhanced ability to survive, to kill, would make him the most difficult of all to apprehend -that Nelson knew. After all he had helped to train the man and knew better than most what it was to fear and respect those special human talents that had long ago outstripped his own.  
  
But whatever Crane was doing and where ever he was, it was nearby -had to be. Morton had said that the man shadowed him often and he believed it. Therefore, there was a way to bring his maddened captain into the open where the fine point of a dart would bring him surcease, but it was risky...a risk he had to take despite the danger. He owed Lee Crane that much...and more. The life of Admiral Harriman Nelson had been a rich and full one -if he failed in this one thing, today was as good a day as any to die.  
  
Nelson grabbed the wall-mike he spied to his side and clicked it. "Auxiliary Circuitry Room -this is Nelson. Report."  
  
"Auxiliary Circuitry Room -Neville reporting."  
  
'Neville, at my word, I want you to rig for white three frames before and three frames after frames 31 through 35." Nelson paused. "I'll call you over my headset. Remember -at my word."  
  
"Sir..?"  
  
"Just do as you're told."  
  
There was a low sigh. "Aye, sir."  
  
Nelson let the mike fall from his hand to bang softly against the bulkhead, hitting it several times before it stopped and just hung there. A thin rivulet of cold sweat trickled down the side of Nelson's face as he scanned his surroundings. It was irrational, yes, and nothing he as a scientist could prove to anyone but himself, but he knew, he sensed now that Lee Crane was nearby...watching, perhaps vacillating between the instinct to remain safe and hidden -and the driving compulsion to feed. He didn't doubt that now...just as he did not doubt that there was only one way of which he could think to make things right. God help him... Nelson shoved his plasma rifle into its shoulder harness and slipped from his breast pocket a small pocket knife, its handle nicked and worn from years of use and abuse, and released its wickedly sharp blade with a small click. It glinted, reflecting the muted light of the corridor.  
  
A small hiss escaped Nelson's tightened lips as he brought the razor-like blade down, hesitating only for a second or two before he brought it across the open palm of his left hand, grimacing as the keen edge bit first into the skin and then, into the flesh. This was the only way; if his captain was on the edge, he had to push him over it -he hoped that he would one day forgive him. Blood, darker and redder than he remembered, immediately bubbled to the fleshy surface from the resulting slash-like wound, the odor of the thick, warm carmine liquid strong even to his ordinary unenhanced human senses. He returned the sticky, stained weapon to his open breast pocket as he held his throbbing left hand up before his eyes and bunched it into a tight fist, noting with almost macabre fascination that the blood was seeping through the narrow spaces between his curled fingers, trailing down his forearm in tiny streams to splatter repeatedly onto the deck in tiny red drops...  
  
...and then he waited.  
  
It seemed like an eternity; longer perhaps, though at best, only seconds and minutes had passed in their endless crawl before Nelson heard...a sound; low and almost below perception. He did not know what had alerted him First -the sound or some sublime primordial instinct possessed by any hunted creature -but whatever it was, Nelson dove for the deck, drawing his plasma rifle as he did, as a solid blur barreled over his head with a guttural roar. Somehow -he didn't know how- he was able to roll onto his knees and scramble to his feet almost immediately, and as he did, his eyes widened with horror.  
  
The thing Admiral Nelson had known as Lee Crane glared at him as he stared at it, mouth slack and open.   
  
In Morton, Nelson had seen one kind of physical horror. In Kowalski, he had seen another. This was something else still. Despite himself, Nelson's hands trembled, the electronic rifle shaking ever so slightly as he pointed it at -what? In some ways, the creature that stared at him, eyes narrow, still resembled the Lee Crane he knew. In just as many ways, it did not.   
  
The wild hair was as black as pitch and reflected no light, the skin as livid as that of a corpse, drawn over a face that had become almost skeletal in its leanness, the exposed fangs within a nearly grossly disproportionate mouth almost viperous, and the eyes... It was those hollow, sanguine slits of poison that remained trained on him, unblinking despite the reddish tears that streamed down the sunken cheeks of that sallow face...but ...Nelson, resisting fear's numbing paralysis, raised the thick black muzzle of the weapon, slightly, and those rubine eyes followed the movement, but his crazed captain made no other move than that.   
  
Why did he not attack?  
  
It was obvious. The dark gifts granted by Project M.I.N.A. were further-reaching than he, as a scientist, would have dreamed or dreaded. Despite what Thibideau had said, the virus was mutating and in some primordial fashion, Crane was reading his thoughts, not just sending his own. If the Captain did not know it before, he knew now what his admiral intended for him and for the disease within that did not want to die. Crane's chest began to heave rapidly, deeply, what he had become torn between the need that had compelled him to be here and the instinctive dread that held him at bay, his eyes locked on the barrel of that gun as he stepped...backwards.   
  
Nelson shook his head, the paralyzing fear suddenly completely purged from his system by the equally sudden anger he felt -at himself and this damning disease. Not again. Not again. "NOW!!!"  
  
All at once, as the Admiral had commanded, the three frames before and after this small dark arena were ablaze with cold, white light, enclosing both hunter and hunted in an even smaller stage of artificial twilight -but who was actually the hunter or the hunted neither knew nor did it really matter. Pain traveled up the arm of Nelson's wounded hand like a series of invisible serrated blades as he again brought up the muzzle of the plasma rifle and struggled to aim it on a being that seemed to have forgotten that he was hungry and that it was that need that had drawn him here in the first place. Anger was gone. Mindless rage was gone. Only fear remained in those haunted ruby eyes as the creature that Lee Crane had become searched, panicked, for some refuge from that damning light that trapped him here.  
  
Despite the anguish he felt, Nelson drew a steeling breath...there was no turning back now...and pulled the secondary trigger. For a moment, there was no sound and then -nothing.   
  
Neither being moved and then Nelson, eyes widening and face suddenly all the more pale, depressed the trigger a second time. This time, there was the small hiss of compressed air, but beyond that -nothing.   
  
No dart ejected and the only evidence that the tiny missiles were in the chamber at all was a thin thread of pinkish translucent fluid that had begun to leak from a tiny crease in the housing of the unit itself -a crack; some insignificant physical slight caused by and during his drop and roll onto his knees...but not so insignificant after all. He knew it...and now, Lee knew it too. A totally corrupt, vulpine smile appeared on Crane's cracked lips. My God, Nelson thought in horror, he knew it!  
  
Just as suddenly as it had appeared on Lee Crane's face, the fear was gone and in its place, something entirely inhuman. Only some instinctive fear of what was in those darts had held him at bay -and now that the threat no longer existed, and the doubt in the weapon that Nelson held was clear in the Admiral's mind- he was no longer frightened. He was hungry. The lure of his admiral's warm, life-giving blood was strong and he wanted it -all of it. The vampiric creature that wore the distorted face of the Captain of the Seaview took one step forward. Harriman Nelson took one step back, finger trembling over the trigger that led to the hand—held plasma cannon's energy chamber. He took another step backwards, not daring to turn his back on the advancing horror; not even to run for his life. "Lee..." Nelson whispered almost desperately, his mouth slack despite himself, the tremor in his voice pronounced enough for anyone to hear. "If you remember who you are...if you can understand anything at all...don't make me fire on you!"  
  
But there was no comprehension in those inhuman eyes, nor concern, only a ravenous hunger and thirst that destroyed all reason and caring...and even as the Admiral of the Seaview depressed the trigger, he realized that he had never really expected there to have been. Electric blue and blinding, the beam of concentrated energy exploded from the rifle's metallic-black maw with a high-pitched mechanical shriek and hit the advancing, crazed captain square in the chest, the stink of scorched flesh filling the recirculated air. Crane recoiled, thrown, with an inhuman, animal-like howl of pain -but he did not stop. Before the horrified admiral's eyes, the blistered wound in his captain's exposed flesh seemed to flow like liquid and then heal. A gurgling laugh escaped the Captain's mouth as he immediately righted himself and advanced again.  
  
A single movement of Nelson's outstretched finger moved the power meter up from low force to medium -a second movement fired the weapon. Blue-white fire jetted from the steaming muzzle, enveloping the Captain in a crackling web of energy -and he screamed, so loud and horribly that Nelson had to struggle with himself not to drop the rifle and let his hands fly up to cover his ears. When the paroxysm died down, Crane stumbled, falling to one knee, his body shuddering...even as the wounds again began to heal. Nelson, hating himself even as he did it, inched the power meter up to its highest degree -lethal force- and then his finger hovered over the trigger, trembling -he knew what he had to do. He knew, but as much as he did know what had to be done, he also knew that the man who huddled there, as twisted and deformed as this disease had made him, was his friend. How could he- Just then, Crane looked up sharply, suddenly, and just for a moment, the mindless rage and hunger were gone as his eyes met those of his admiral as if probing his mind and thoughts, beseeching as he said in a small, ragged voice: "Please..?"  
  
Nelson shuddered at the sound of that voice and forced himself to remain steady. "May God forgive me..." This time, the shrieking volley of concentrated energy was white-hot as it hit the Captain of the Seaview, the concussive force of it bodily throwing him beyond the confines of his prison of light, to tumble along the smooth deck until he rolled to a stop, his body jerking spasmodically for a time, and then, he was silent and still.  
  
It was over. He had never meant it to end like this, but it was over. Nelson forced himself to walk forward, his legs as shaky and weak as limp rubber bands, as he hesitantly drew to his fallen friend's side. Thin plumes of smoke drifted from the scorched areas on Crane's uniform where the plasma energy had burned it and the wounds- Nelson's eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, Jesus..." Even as the denial formed in Nelson's brain, the burns covering Crane's inert body began to heal, the scorched and blistered flesh repairing itself, shifting faster and faster now. The Admiral shook his head frantically -what was he to-   
  
The answer came in a flash of grim inspiration.   
  
Nelson's fingers, slick and clumsy with his own blood, shook as he fumbled with the loading port of the dart gun, struggling with the stubborn thing until it opened with a sudden pop, two darts falling to the deck and one undamaged missile falling into his hand. He dropped to his knees beside the body of his captain which had begun to stir, ignoring the pain of the abrupt contact with the hard, cold deck and with a shuddering breath, plunged the dart's sharp, needle-like tip deep into the flesh of Crane's chest.  
  
The scream was unlike anything Nelson had ever heard. After the sights he had seen and the sounds he had heard on this accursed cruise, Seaview's admiral had come to think that nothing could shock his jaded sensibilities, but he couldn't have been more wrong. It didn't even sound like a human scream as it rang off the bulkheads, the sheer force of the involuntary effort compelling the agonized skipper to sit up, his back arching backwards at a degree that should have been physically impossible. Regurgitated blood and spittle came as a spray out of his open mouth as the awful, inhuman shriek seemed to climb in pitch and volume as though it would never stop, the Captain's limbs and head thrashing so violently that the involuntary blows against the deck broke the skin, splattering himself and the area around him with pale inhuman blood.  
  
Despite the fact that it was potentially the most dangerous and suicidal move he had ever made in his life, the Admiral grabbed the seizing C.O's violently thrashing arms, struggling to pin him down -the reactions that Nelson had seen in others had ranged in levels of intensity, but he had yet to see anything that so reminded him of a victim of possession fighting the demon that dwelt within him; a beast that did not want to let go and would kill the victim rather than freeing him -such was the impression gathered from the many strange things he had seen...and had no intention of allowing. The Captain's bruised and bloodied head threshed against Nelson's lap as the seizure continued to build with no foreseeable end. All at once, Crane pulled one arm free of his admiral's desperate grip and grabbed the Admiral by the arm -hard- and Nelson, too, was forced to cry out in shock and pain as he felt the enclosed bone snap beneath the flesh, but he did not -he WOULD NOT LET GO.   
  
The screaming stopped.  
  
At first, Nelson could scarcely believe it, so intensely were his ears ringing, but it was true, and the silence that followed was so complete that for a moment, he suspected that he had been struck deaf. Shakily, with his uninjured right hand, Nelson pried the unconscious captain's loose grip from his twice-injured left arm, gasping aloud not because of the nauseating pain that traveled up and down the maimed limb but because he realized then that he was being watched. Crane's eyes were wide and bright with confusion and fear, his mouth moving slackly with words that refused to come until his damp, pale brow furrowed with some silent, supreme effort and his voice finally came as a feeble whisper. "Ad...miral..?"  
  
Gradually, a small, tentative, sadness-tinged smile touched Harriman Nelson's lips as he awkwardly cradled the helpless captain of this ship on his good arm and the words that he had hoped to be able to say came to him at last. "You don't need to worry, Lee -it's going to be all right. It stops here. It goes...no further."  
  
Lee Crane nodded mutely as his eyes gradually closed and he sank into a darkness without dreams, deaf to the sound of the footsteps of the search and rescue team that had just arrived.  
  
  
  
  
"'I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech. That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me. To him my tale I teach'."  
  
The leather-bound book, a seeming relic of ages past, weighed heavily in Nelson's awkward grasp, not so much weighty, in truth, as it was unwieldy when being balanced in the fingers of one hand as the other remained swathed both in bandages and a cast that reached past the elbow. The book that he held was a book of prayers, and of those he had read more than one, but the words he read right now belonged to those of an old poem written in another century; a copy of which had been pinned to the slightly creased page by a small colored paper clip -a poem which a certain corpsman had said had been his late commanding officer's favorite. As the words spoken at a funeral, they were far from traditional, but they more than sufficed...and the honored dead had ever deserved a proper send-off.  
  
The arrangements were a little different than those he had first decided, but they, too, would suffice. He had vowed that the accursed legacy of Project M.I.N.A. would end here, and here it would end -with Seaview's missiles. The grande dame of the sea was seaworthy at last -halting and injured still- but operational nonetheless and within her huge loading bay were dead Voyageur's off-loaded nuclear arsenal, ready to be delivered to waiting representatives of her government -leaving only one duty to perform before Seaview and her crew could finally head for home...one grim and necessary duty. As the  
solemnly silent Control Room crew listened, Nelson shifted the book that rested within his hands, his voice the only human sound in the room. "'Farewell, farewell! But this I tell to thee, thou Wedding guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast'."  
  
Beyond the blind eyes of Seaview's still crippled external cameras the last grim scene of a fatal play would soon be performed. Those within Seaview that had died a true death had already been cremated, their ashes cast to the sea that had become their mother and father. Nelson knew that there were those who would question his decision and actions in this regard, as those who had experienced nothing and knew nothing often did after the fact, but it was a course of action he had not chosen lightly. Project M.I.N.A., for whatever little good might have come from it, was too dangerous a quantity to foist on an unprepared world and too cruel a legacy for the families of those that had been its victims -the dead also deserved to rest, not be poked or pored over until time without end for clues that probably wouldn't be found in their flesh anyway -it might not have been the right answer, but it was his answer. Remote-controlled torpedoes had been fired at both Antarctic Station Delta and the S.S.N. Voyageur, each unit now lodged in some part of each structure, each containing enough potential destructive power to vaporize any solid substance that remained...or the microbes that still infected them -a force to be released by pressing the button on the remote control unit at the acting second-in-command's side. Nelson suppressed a small shudder -one touch and his work was done...and he was so very tired. The last few words of the poem came to his lips, a eulogy drawing to a close. "He went like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn; a sadder and wiser man, he rose the morrow morn'."  
  
In Harriman Nelson's hand, the book fell shut as he offered Lieutenant O'Brien a tilt of his brow. For a second, perhaps, a shadow of uncertainty darkened the young officer's face, but the moment passed even as he snapped to perfect military attention, the mourning-band-wearing crew of the Control Room smartly doing likewise on the same unspoken cue...and the button was pushed.  
  
What they were unable to see, the crew of the Seaview heard a dead ship end an equally dead building could not hide them from the thunderous roar of explosions from above the sea or below it, as piece by flaming piece, Voyageur and Delta began their violent descent into nonexistence. Seaview shuddered from bow to stern, her struts vibrating and the strongest of her men shaken within by the ungodly sound of the man-made cataclysm... and yet...below the raging thunder that should have deafened the crew of the Seaview to all else, there was something more; a wailing sound like that of hundreds of human mouths crying out all at the same time as one collective cry of triumph, the joined voices of hundreds of once trapped souls -finally free.  
  
For a time, the Admiral of the Seaview held his breath, not willing to break the spell of that short space in time, but even as he exhaled, the strange cry began to fade along with the echoes of a man-made storm of destruction that would, in time, expend itself completely. What he had heard and believed others had heard, he could not have heard, and yet, there was some small comfort in knowing if only for himself that he had heard it nonetheless -for those who had died, at least, it was truly over. "Mr. O'Brien."  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
Nelson cast a tired look at Seaview's massive viewing ports and the dark waters that pressed against them before he turned aside, his voice just as weary as it was solemn. "Let's get out of here."  
  
  
  
  
11  
  
  
  
  
By God, it was hot.  
  
Harriman Nelson mopped his brow with the crumpled handkerchief he had pulled out of his hip pocket, marveling silently at the damning power of the mid-day sun at these latitudes, his exposed skin already bearing the tell-tale flush of the initial stages of sunburn regardless of the sun-block he had lathered on it or how sturdy the ozone layer was said to be these days -but go below? It wasn't time to do that just yet. Sunburn was a minor thing these days, easily corrected and easily ignored, and even were that not the case, he had been out of the sun's sight for too long to not take advantage of the opportunity when it presented itself.  
  
Nelson cracked a tired half-smile at the fluid reflected image of the mid-day sun on the milky, hot fragrant liquid in the basin of his cup. Tea. He didn't particularly care for tea, but he cared even less for the brand of coffee they had on this ship, and in any case, what was the old saying -do as the Romans do? Though it had only been a matter of days, it seemed as if it had been a lifetime ago that Seaview, poor battered Seaview, had finally broached the surface of the sea to find herself all but nose to nose with another InterAllied vessel -the S.S. Elizabeth Kenny, one of the Republic of Australia's two, monstrous medical carriers -the ship on whose polished deck he stood right now... drinking tea.  
  
There had been a few changes in the time that Seaview had found herself forcibly incommunicado -Great Britain had just launched her second nuclear sub with an all-female crew and the U.S. was about to launch its first, to note just two- and InterAllied, in its ever enigmatic wisdom had decided to go against its own orders and send help early. The Elizabeth Kenny had been the first to arrive -he and his crew were under quarantine on her now- and two other subs -the S.S.N. Trudeau from Canada and the U.S.N. H.R. Clinton- had arrived soon after, and were flanking Seaview as InterAllied science teams decontaminated her from keel to Conn -they were being very thorough, and considering whet he and his crew had been through, he was glad to know it. He was glad of a lot of things...glad that Voyageur's nuclear arsenal had been off-loaded from his ship...glad that he could see the sun again. Glad to be alive.  
  
He did not know why InterAllied had changed its mind. Scuttlebutt aboard the Kenny had it that high command had folded to international pressure -the Kenny's crew seemed to like to say that Australia had pressed the hardest due to sentiment because of the then upcoming Anzac Day on which they honored their military dead (which they were observing this very day)- but whatever the reason, Nelson did not feel inclined to quibble. Seaview was being decontaminated end repaired, and his crew was being attended -that was what mattered. Those that were fit, were bending to whatever task that the skipper of the Kenny could find them and the rest, the survivors of Project M.I.N.A's insidious plague, were embarking on the seemingly long road to a recovery that would be more complete than he could have hoped for his crew. Their bodies, no longer subject to the virus, were reclaiming their normal D.N.A.-encoded natures -the thirst was gone, as was the madness, and the physical changes were becoming less and less apparent with each day, either shed or absorbed to nothing. Some were well enough to sit and talk, often sharing scuttlebutt or the occasional joke -most of which seemed to have to do with the fact that the Kenny had a mixed crew or something about "shrimp on the barbie" -which the Australian crew seemed to take with polite, albeit pained, patience. It was all so pleasant and natural that it was almost enough to make him forget the horror of the past.  
  
Almost.  
  
But not quite.  
  
There remained the fact that people had died -the crew of the Voyageur, the staff at Station Delta- and members of his own crew  
  
The names were indelibly printed on his brain. Grant, Minnelli, Jensen, Singh, Donley, Berber, Olson, Quint, Dillman, Quaid, Royce, Davies, Bellamy, and Weiss had died because of the blast that had taken Seaview to the bottom. The bodies, truly dead, off Kormos, Rose, Nakamura, Galloway, Dietz, and Svensen had been found in the search after Seaview's stricken had been captured. Mulroney, Tobias, Carmichael, and Loomis had died later, no matter the medical corps' efforts to save them. Then there were the other casualties: corpsman Gill wanted to take a sabbatical to decide his future; corpsman Rodriguez wanted out of the Navy and ParaNavy altogether; Ensign Madison had lost one of his legs after all; and Yeoman Morley would need a great deal of physical therapy for a long time to come -and the others, the other victims of the plague, had and would have their own troubles, no doubt. Some would stay. Some would not. For the most part, it was as if the virus had been a sentient thing and that when it died, the memories of what its victims had had to do, had died with it, but memories like those rarely stayed dead -of that he was grimly certain. There was a great deal of recovery -both physical and emotional- yet to come.  
  
Nelson stared at the fluid image of the hot sun a moment longer and then drained the lest of the now tepid brew before dropping the disposable cup into a recycling container and heading back into the interior of the great, floating medical facility, his mind suddenly troubled not by images of the past, but because a glance at his watch had reminded him of something he had promised to do and could put off no longer...not that he had really forgotten. There was nothing so difficult to forget as that which one did not went to do or feared one would have to do...even if it was for the best reasons. With luck, the situation wouldn't come to that point, but whether it was an acute case of pessimism or terminal realism, the Admiral of the Seaview didn't doubt that it would.   
  
Ah, but then again, no-one ever said that life was fair or easy.  
  
At the opposite end of the sterile-white corridor, the entrance to the Kenny's main medical lab came into view. Nelson squared his shoulders and pressed forward.  
  
  
  
  
"-and these are the latest figures. As you can see, the metabolic rate is coming within normal parameters for all of our patients."  
  
"Yes...the actual rate of physical normalization is nothing short of fantastic..."  
  
"Agreed, but we have to take into account-Doc stopped in mid-sentence and glanced up sharply from the medical folder in his hand, alerted by a familiar heavy step that he and the Kenny's chief medical officer were no longer alone. He didn't have to check the face of the watch on his wrist to learn the hour or to know that in his own way he had run out of time -that Admiral Nelson had appeared in the doorway just as he had said that he would was silent proof of that. "Admiral."  
  
"Doc." Nelson glanced towards the Kenny's chief medical officer -admiral though he was, he had no real authority on this vessel to tell anyone to do anything; least of all to vacate their own sick bay...but he was going to do just that anyway -as politely as possible. "If I could have a few minutes of my chief medical officer's time, Lieutenant?" The physician cast a poorly hidden look of puzzlement at the two officers of the Seaview and nodded before making his exit on some medical pretense. "So?" Nelson asked, unconsciously massaging his cast-encased arm. "I believe it's time, isn't it?"  
  
A hiss of frustration escaped Doc's tightly drawn lips, his lined brow creasing all the more deeply as he allowed the cover of the medical report to fall shut. "Admiral," he said with a low sigh, "I'm no longer certain that this is the right way to go about this."  
  
"Oh?" Nelson replied with a slight lift to his left eyebrow as he met the physician's troubled gaze. "Has he started eating?"  
  
Doc shook his head glumly. "No."  
  
"And there's no physical reason?"  
  
Another sigh. "No, sir. No physical reason."  
  
"The rest of the patients recovering from V3 -they are starting on normal, solid food?"  
  
Doc winced slightly and sighed aloud -he knew where this was heading. Right into the proverbial corner. "Yes, sir -they have. The upside of the situation seems to be that the virus had no time to make any permanent changes to their digestive systems -the effects are reversing- but not everyone is capable of progressing emotionally or physically at the same rate. That's the reality of it. While admittedly deficient in bulk, nutritionally, an intravenous diet is-"  
  
"-slow starvation." The Admiral regarded the medical officer searchingly. "As I recall, those were your very words and we would not be having this conversation at all if you had not agreed that this way, though difficult, might be the only way."  
  
Doc nodded wearily -he hadn't forgotten. He merely wished, at the moment, that the best course of action could also be the most pleasant one. That was rarely the case. "Aye, sir -you are right, but the question now is when to start." At that moment, there was a low knock at the door to the medical lab and one of the Kenny's enlisted men appeared at the entrance bearing a covered dinner tray. Doc glanced at the young seaman standing there in his stark white uniform quite uncomfortably, it seemed (it was more than likely that he had been waiting out of sight for some time, listening) and then regarded the Admiral almost accusingly. "You never had any doubt that the situation would turn out like this."  
  
Nelson took the tray from the increasingly uneasy crewman and lifted the cover slightly for a moment to view the contents beneath and with a satisfied nod sent the crewman away before he returned  
  
  
Doc's accusing stare. "I prefer to think of myself as one who prepares for the least desirable eventuality...and in either case, if I know the nature of anyone, I know this patient's personality best of all. Carry on."  
  
  
  
  
It was an odor, a savory perfume, that reminded him of pleasant times and home.  
  
Nelson inhaled deeply of the warm aroma escaping the covered tray he carried, the familiar scent bringing a small wistful smile to his otherwise stern countenance as he walked the sterile, narrow corridor, his destination not yet in sight. He breathed deeply the aroma of Irish stew, thick with vegetables cut especially small and the meat prepared in much the same way. Cookie had done an excellent job of preparing the meal -the recipe for the hidden dish was a Nelson family treasure and if it didn't get the desired effect, he had no idea what else would. Desperate measures for desperate times -it had required a good measure of the blarney in the Irish part of his blood and had cost him a good many of the owed favors he had accrued during his years of service to get the permission to break through the new web of silence InterAllied had dropped around the area...but if his plan worked, it would be well worth it. Perhaps he was using important amassed favors for personal ends, but what of that? They were his to use and new debts could be gathered again in time...and as needed. That, too, was a part of military politics.  
  
Nelson pressed against the cold bulkhead as several members of the Kenny's medical corps passed by on what he hoped was a minor errand -it was hard to tell. Like the stark white utility uniform he wore now, the medical corps had worn their sterile medical whites ever since he and his crew had boarded the Kenny; at first, as a precaution -now, as a necessity. Project M.I.N.A's creation had left one invisible mark on each of its surviving victims -their immune systems, to the man, had almost been destroyed, and while synthetic immuno-enhancers would restore those capacities in time, at the present, something as minor and normally non-threatening as the common cold, left untreated, would certainly prove fatal. They were taking no chances -Nelson adjusted the white cap that covered his hair- and neither was he. The Seaview had lost too many men this cruise -if he had anything to say or do about it, she would lose no more. Nelson drew a steeling breath as his destination came in sight and paused, balancing the tray clumsily on his cast-encased arm, as he extended his free hand and gently rapped on the door.  
  
No response. A minute passed, perhaps two, before the Admiral grasped the metal handle, turned it, and stepped back as the door slowly inched open. He then quietly, cautiously stepped inside...and even as he did, he was struck by the strongest sense of déjà-vu. How long ago was it -a seeming lifetime ago- that he had stepped into a cabin on the Seaview just as he was now, bearing sustenance just as he had then for almost exactly the same reasons? Not that long ago at all. But not everything was the same. That cabin had been cold and dark -the light in this semi-private recovery room was only a little dimmer than normal and it was warm, pleasantly warm -the medical corps didn't want to chance any of its patients catching a chill.  
  
Nelson set the tray down on a nearby desk and looked toward the one occupied bunk. The pale sheets pulled up to his chest, the Captain of the Seaview lay sound asleep, curls of dark hair pasted loosely against his damp pallid brow, his hands twitching slightly in response to whatever sleeping play that was unfolding before his mental sight...a good sleep, he hoped, and with even better dreams. What the conscious mind could not fully remember, the subconscious never forgot and more than one recovering patient had woken up from some horrible nightmare confused or crying -but they were getting better. They were! Morton had indicated that he was staying on as had Sharkey, Riley, and Kowalski. Patterson, at the time of their rescue, had indicated uncertainty, but he was staying on too. Most of the familiar faces that were the crew of the Seaview were not taking the option of being transferred -why, he didn't know, but he was glad of it. Perhaps Crane would also- Nelson started, his train of thought broken as he spied on the bunkside table, a little evidence of the healing he had hoped to see -an English chocolate bar, a Fry's cream bar, if he was right- its foil and paper wrapping slightly torn and partially open, the dark candy within partly nibbled away, but the smile of delight on his lips faded quickly. A partially eaten candy bar was hardly proof that the Captain of his ship had started eating the solids he had thus far refused. Chocolate could be melted in the mouth and swallowed as easily as liquid; no real substance at all.  
  
Just then, the Admiral turned sharply, startled by the sound of a low moan to his side. Asleep still, Crane had begun to stir in his restless unconsciousness, his still painfully thin features drawn in a grimace, but whether in fear or pain Nelson did not know...and could not tell even as the young commanding officer began to stir more violently, his arms and head thrashing feebly against the dampening creased, pale sheets, the moan now more like a cry. Nelson sat to the side of the restlessly sleeping captain, his brow creased with mounting concern as he reached over to grasp the unconsciously struggling man by the shoulders. "Easy, Lee..." All at once, the Captain sat bolt upright with a strangled cry, his eyes wide and unfocussed, his chest heaving, his trembling hands grasping the Admiral by the arms as he leaned against him, literally shaking...like a frightened child. "Easy, lad...easy," Nelson said softly. "You're all right. You're safe now. Easy..."  
  
By and by, the disorientation and blind terror seemed to fade as Crane's grip loosened and he blinked, looking around himself in mild confusion as though only gradually accepting that he was awake and his nightmare a thing of the past. A shaky sigh escaped the Captain's lips as he weakly pushed himself away, only daring to glance at his admiral in poorly hidden embarrassment. "I'm...I'm sorry, Admiral. I... Damned dreams."  
  
"Bad ones by the sound of it, lad."  
  
"Yes, sir...it-" Crane paused, realizing as the rest of the fog lifted from his brain, that Nelson had called him "lad", something he had not done for a long, long time. A weak smile passed over his thin lips. "Very bad dreams."  
  
Nelson nodded thoughtfully. "I could ask Doc to give you something to help you to relax, if you wish."  
  
"God no," Crane said in mock protest as he awkwardly struggled to pile his pillows up behind him -it was all Nelson could do to resist the instinctive urge to help, but Crane had never liked being smothered. A low laugh escaped Crane's mouth. "I think I've slept enough. I can't remember seeing an entire day since...since..." The Captain's eyes closed for a moment, his brow creasing ever so slightly at the sudden flood of mental flotsam visible only to himself; ephemeral, transient, none of it good...none of it pleasant to remember though he was beginning to suspect that he had little choice in the matter of recalling things or not recalling them. The faintest ghost of a smile crossed Crane's wan, drawn countenance as he returned his admiral's probing and troubled gaze. "I have rested long enough -I want to feel like a man again not a helpless child. I need..." A hint of sadness entered the weak smile. "I need to know what's going on around here -the medical staff won't tell me anything...and scuttlebutt isn't official."   
  
It was a change -a small change, true- but a change nonetheless...and a good one. Perhaps he had feared needlessly. The road to recovery was often a long, arduous journey and recovery from Project M.I.N.A's creation was no exception. During the initial leg of the healing process of Seaview's stricken crew, they had been allowed few visitors and in the brief periods when Nelson had been allowed to attend his crew, sometimes to be at his friend and captain's side, Crane had either been unconscious or in a delirium wherein the Captain had barely recognized him at all -even after the sickness-induced dementia had passed, it had been as if the flame of purpose which had always burned so brightly within the man had disappeared...perhaps never to return. This was the first time since that time that Nelson had seen a single spark of that old flame. "You haven't missed much," the Admiral said, reaching over and placing another pillow behind Crane's back despite his earlier decision not to act the part of a smothering parent as he was said to occasionally do. He leaned back. "The corpsman that you brought back from Delta-"  
  
Crane frowned, trying to retrieve the memory -now it came. "Thibideau?"  
  
"He left us yesterday with some official-types from Inter-Allied -they came for the information on Delta and Project M.I.N.A. and took him with them...for debriefing, I suppose."  
  
Crane leaned forward, cautiously intrigued. "What kind of officials?"  
  
"The usual kind...nondescript droids in equally nondescript black suits with all the right credentials," the Admiral replied dismissively, the disinterest in his voice belying the concern that tickled at the back of his mind -they had been almost too nondescript. They had come with all the right papers and credentials, but having worked with the higher echelons of Inter-Allied, he thought he knew all of the agents that InterAllied would have sent to retrieve the kind of information that had been gathered at so dear a price during this mission -but each impassive, nondescript face had been almost disturbingly unfamiliar to him.   
  
But they had had all the authority that they had needed and Nelson had had to stand aside, on this ship, as strangers rifled through his ship like thieves and trespassers, gathering all of the hard copy, purging each and every one of Seaview's computer banks of the data on Project M.I.N.A., confounding the blank spaces in the computers' memory banks with gibberish as if they had been afraid that someone, somehow, might dare to search the nebulous realm of cyberspace for any fragments of information that might remain -for all anyone knew, beyond the knowledge in the heads of the crew of the Seaview (knowledge which no-one in his right mind would dare reveal anyway) Seaview and Station Delta had never encountered each other...and there had never been any Project M.I.N.A.. Indeed, even the decision Nelson had made to destroy Delta and the Voyageur was to fall under this new veil of silence...as well as other things -for the good of the general peace...of course. He was not so sure of that at all.  
  
Nelson sat back, gradually aware of the odd quietude that surrounded the Commanding Officer of the Seaview and himself, Crane staring into some unseen distance in such complete silence that the Admiral found himself wondering if a single word he had said had been heard at all...or if Crane had again slipped into some personal oblivion. He had told him many details before only to have to repeat them upon realizing that the man hadn't heard a word -but that didn't happen very often now. The moment stretched on and then Crane blinked and slowly met Nelson's concerned gaze. "And Thibideau -what'll happen to him...after the things you told me he did?"  
  
Nelson exhaled heavily, hunching his shoulders slightly. "I don't know. As I said, he'll be debriefed, no doubt, but as for his part in all of this -the information he'll give and the help he gave may allow for some clemency from the powers-that-be and, hopefully, that'll be the end of it." He hoped. As to whether that would truly be the end of it, Nelson did not know. Lieutenant Jr. Gr. Mathieu Marcel Thibideau was still as much an enigma to him now as he had been before -though he believed that Thibideau's anguish over the loss of his captain and crew was sincere and profound, he still could not believe that the man had told the entire truth. There were too many discrepancies between what he had said and what Nelson feared...and suspected...and told to the Captain of the Seaview who had again sunken into a troubling silence. Nelson paused for a moment, waiting, almost trying to divine the silent thoughts behind that pale brow and then: "What are you thinking, Lee?"  
  
Lee Crane shook his head wearily. "So many questions...so many lies told to keep ourselves safe...and all of it so necessary. Sometimes I wonder..." He sighed aloud. "When I was 'sick', I did have brief moments of lucidity...times when I knew enough to almost think that I had been consigned to Hell for some of the things I've done no matter how necessary...and other times, I found myself remembering other assignments and other incidents when I found myself under the control of something or someone other than myself -times when my mind was all but raped, and I realized that this was yet another one of those...and that, in a way, I had set myself up for it...and I know that if I stay on the course that I'm on, it could happen again. No matter how careful I em, there's no guarantee that it wouldn't." Crane's dark, troubled eyes narrowed. "I could probably change all that, couldn't I? By resigning my commission...by embarking on a quieter, safer life. I think I'm entitled to that."  
  
Nelson slumped inwardly, the dread he had felt crystallizing with the utterance of a few simple words. He and Lee Crane were closer than if an accident of biological chance had determined that they should be father and son, and he knew that he would care for and respect the man no less if he chose to pursue a civilian life and career, but all the same, he had always hoped... Nelson put a hand on Crane's shoulder, trying to encourage no matter his concern. "I know you are, Lee -more than most. If...if that's what you really want... Have you...made a decision?"  
  
Crane uttered a soft, enigmatic laugh that faded with the next breath drawn. "Do you remember, Admiral, how years ago, I 'pestered' you for your official approval to enter the naval academy -because I was underage?" Nelson nodded, a faint smile on his lips at the  
memory of that willful youth -oh yes, he remembered. A glimmer of a smile lightened Crane's face as well. "I was just a kid -barely in my teens and even then I knew that I wanted to be in the Navy more than anything -I knew it wasn't perfect, but I believed in the ideals for which it stood. I felt that way when I entered the Navy proper...and I still believed in them when I accepted transfer to the ParaNavy...and Seaview -and the thing about all of it, despite all that's happened..." Crane met Nelson's eyes directly. "The thing is that I still do. Serving at sea in the Navy or ParaNavy is...what I am. Is that crazy?"  
  
A small chuckle escaped Nelson's mouth -he doubted that Crane would understand, but in this much, he was more relieved than anyone could ever know. But there was something else... Even as the thought re-entered Nelson's mind, the aroma of the meal as yet untouched filled his nostrils with his intake of breath. He hadn't forgotten and Crane had surely noticed it. "No. You're not crazy, but determination to remain in the Service isn't going to be enough. He paused, steeling himself. "Doc tells me that you still haven't started eating."  
  
A brief shadow of annoyance darkened Crane's brow, his eyes closing against it until the moment passed. "I will, Admiral -but not yet. I'm not hungry."  
  
Nelson studied the Captain's pale, painfully thin face, noting the hollows that had not struck him as being so deep before, and the way that Crane had quickly averted his gaze even as he had uttered the obvious lie: "I'm not hungry." Crane had never been a man that ate heavily or gorged himself, never dieted, never had to, and usually had a lean and healthy form that this admiral had to admit to wishing he had the stamina to attain (even if only to himself), but right now, Crane was more than lean -he was gaunt, and by Doc's estimation, a good twenty pounds underweight...with the likelihood of losing more if the situation failed to change -he could not even wear the signet ring which he had earned and cherished for it slipped from his finger as if it had been crafted for some other, larger, man and remained on the table beside his bunk. It could not go on like this. It would not. Nelson exhaled heavily. "I see."  
  
At those words, Harriman Nelson stood up and walked to the table on which he had laid his small burden, Crane watching him all the while in an uncertain, puzzled silence, even as Nelson picked up the covered tray and brought it to his bedside and again sat down. "Lee, as long as I've known you, you've had this distaste for deception even when you had to do it -and I know you're not being forthright with me."  
  
"Sir, I-"  
  
Nelson held up a single finger and the protest faltered on Crane's lips even as he was about to speak it. "I don't know how much you remember of what happened to you or what that accursed disease forced you to do...and I cannot know the extent to which remembering makes you suffer -but I do know that it will pass and that I have no desire to lose even one more member of this crew to that disease for any reason." Nelson paused. "Thus, I have come to a decision and you, lad, will obey these orders to the letter." The uncertainty in Crane's face deepened, his eyes searching his admiral's countenance for some clue. "Starting today, I am going to see that you eat. Regardless of my schedule or workload I shall, three times a day, bring your meal and, three times a day, return to see that it has been eaten."  
  
Crane's eyes widened, his jaw slack with incredulity. "You can't-"  
  
"If that proves unsuccessful," Nelson continued, willing himself to ignore his captain's aghast disbelief, "I shall continue to bring your meal three times a day and regardless of schedule or workload, and I shall wait until as such a time as you consume your meal completely."  
  
"You can't be serio-"  
  
"And if that venture proves just as unsuccessful, Captain," Nelson continued, his voice rising ever so slightly, "I shall continue to bring your meal three times a day regardless of my schedule or workload -however this time I would be accompanied by four of the surliest corpsmen I can find who would forcibly see that you sit still while I spoon-feed you -which would, no doubt, prove as humiliating to you as it would be embarrassing to me..." Nelson paused and picked up the metal spoon beside the covered platter. "...unless you are willing to start..?"  
  
For a time, a seemingly endless moment, there was silence; a stillness that was thick and heavy with all but unbearable tension as the mortified captain of the Seaview continued to stare at his admiral, still aghast, incredulous and thoroughly uncertain whether or not the man was joking...but even as he studied Nelson's face, searching the expression in his eyes or the turn of his lips, Crane came to a conclusion that was as dreadful as it was unbelievable -Nelson was not joking. What he had said, he truly meant -and would carry out. Crane stared at the covered tray which, being meant for bedridden patients, had been placed across his lap, and accepted the spoon as he removed the metal cover from the platter-like bowl, his hand trembling ever so slightly.  
  
Immediately, the aroma of Irish stew, still very warm, assailed his nostrils, pungent and so comfortingly familiar, as he drew the spoon around the edges of the bowl, stirring the thick broth and its tiny chunks of vegetables and meat. Nelson had been wrong about one thing, at least. He had only been partially right about why his captain didn't eat. Oh, he remembered bits and pieces of what he had done, all right -about the gore that his body had craved and that he had taken it- though from whom he was blessedly uncertain and hoped that he would never remember, but the fact of the matter was that though his brain still remembered what it was to eat, his body and, perhaps, his psyche, did not. The chocolate he had tried to nibble had gotten no further than his mouth before he had had to spit it out into the toilet, gagging at the thought of actually trying to taste or swallow it; the awful nausea had come when he had been possessed by that plague whenever he had tried-   
  
Crane brought a spoon of the mixture up to his lips and determinedly stuffed it into his mouth, clamping his lips tightly shut even as he removed the utensil. Nelson looked on in an uneasy silence.  
  
For what seemed to be an eternity, Crane didn't swallow, instead moving the stew around in his mouth with his tongue as if trying something entirely alien, arid when he did swallow, every muscle in his emaciated form tensed, his mind and body steeling themselves against the expected agony and torturous nausea that had come with the eating of solid food...and yet -this time- did not. Crane waited for a few seconds, uncertain, his eyes moving as if to search for the physical anguish to which he had become so accustomed, and then sampled the stew again, his hand shaking enough to spill almost as much as he swallowed...and a small, disbelieving smile lighted his lips as his brain translated the messages of his senses, revealing to him not one discovery but two. Not only was the thick, substance laden broth delicious -he was actually, suddenly, very hungry.  
  
The Captain of the Seaview glanced up, not at all surprised to see the smug look of "I-told-you-so" on his admiral's visage, and shrugged sheepishly, his expression profoundly innocent. "What?" he said. "No dessert?"  
  
For the first time in a long time, there was laughter -Nelson's added to that of many others who had found reason to laugh again- and it felt good. Life was no more perfect now than it had been, but with life, there was the joy of hope...  
  
...and the adventures of the crew of the S.S.R.N. Seaview would continue.  
  
  
  
Epilogue  
  
  
  
The long, featureless corridor stretched on ahead of him, his destination as far as it was near.  
  
He had never liked this part of a mission. For most, completion meant satisfaction in a job well done, but for him, there was always that sense of depression like the let-down that followed holidays when one found himself physically and emotionally spent...and this time, it was worse. He had followed his orders and had gotten the job done -but he had lost people that had actually meant something to him. It wasn't supposed to happen that way, but it had.  
  
At either side of the entrance, expressionless guards stood at mannequin-stiff attention, their eyes moving only to acknowledge the flash of his identity card just before he entered the inner chamber of this massive underground complex where a computer of which the general population could not conceive was constantly fed data of which the general populace could never know. The tiny, mirror-like disc he carried shimmered as he placed it in the loading port.  
  
Immediately, the pitch of the constant hum in this room changed, rising as he placed his hand against the panel which read each whorl and line on his palm, carrying the information on micro-fine laser beams to the computer's monstrous memory banks. Almost at once, electronic read-out appeared on the dark screen before his eyes. [Thibideau, Agent Lieutenant Jr. Gr. Mathieu Marcel -identity confirmed. How may I help you, sir?]  
  
Thibideau's fingers danced over the recessed keyboard -this part of his life even Captain Hudson had not known until the last when he had asked the man's forgiveness...and this part of the greater scheme of things InterAllied could not know -for its own good. Rife with limitations that organization may have been, but it was still too honor-bound to deal with the dirtiest side of keeping peace. The words appeared on the screen. [Access file: S.S.R.N. Seaview/ Sub-File: Bio Weapons/ Section: Genetic Engineering/ Subsection: Humanoid Transmutation]. Only seconds passed before the great synthetic brain provided the asked-for file, Thibideau's pale eyes darting back and forth as he manually scrolled past sealed top-secret electronic documentation on events of which the victims understood or knew little, reading each name silently: [Operation: Werewolf], [Operation: Brand of the Beast], and [Operation: Man-Beast] to name only a few, passing others until he came to an empty computer folder and depressed the key beneath his finger.  
  
It took less than ten seconds for the information to download from the CD-RW into the electronic file and less than that for the message [Operation: Project M.I.N.A. -download complete. File accepted] to appear on the screen. Another touch and the screen went blank, the now-empty disc ejecting at the same time.  
  
Thibideau slipped the disc into the hip pocket of the jacket of the jet-black suit he wore as he exited the chamber, his expression grim. An overly active conscience was something one in this organization could ill-afford -it had caused him to panic, weaken and doubt  
-and his masters knew it...but they didn't particularly care -not for the moment. The directors of this needfully perverse union of nations had the information they had sought -the evidence of the folly of which they were all a part was now safely hidden. Thibideau sighed aloud.  
  
Why couldn't duty be easy?  
  
  
  
*finished*  
  
  
  
Dedicated in loving memory of Irwin Allen, Richard Basehart, and Paul Trinka.  
  
  
  
Quotes:  
1 "Alien" by Dan O'Bannon  
2 "Dracula" by Bram Stoker  
3 "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge  
  
  
  
  



End file.
